


Dissolution

by seventhe



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: 17 year old sexytimes, April Showers Challenge, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Twincest, brothers banging, honk, how many tags for twincest can I come up with, oh shit it's a long final fantasy fic get in the car!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of a king, the future of a country, and the bond between two brothers: the story of how Edgar let Sabin go.</p><p>[Further warnings/labels:<br/>Incest (twincest). Questionable consent (dubcon). Explicit sexual activity (cocks). Underage participants in said explicit sexual activity (the twins are 17). Badtouch. This story rolled in a pile of wrong.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissolution

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to katmillia and vrazdova for gamma reading and feedback, and most of all thank-you to justira for beta, gamma, and email help: without her, this fic never would have made it.

_  
... tonight...  
... took a turn for the worse...  
... theres a chance he'll..._

 _Sabin: B-brother...  
Edgar: So... They went and told you...  
Matron: Edgar! Here you are...  
Matron: Your father... He just uttered his last wish that Figaro be divided  
between you...  
Sabin: This is NONSENSE!! Everyone's saying that the Empire poisoned  
Dad... And the only thing on your mind is "Who's going to be the  
next King!?" You're all pathetic!  
Sabin: No-one cared when Mom passed away, either...  
Matron: That's not...  
Sabin: You were as bad as any of 'em!  
Edgar: Sabin...  
Sabin: Empire of murderers... They won't get away with this!  
Edgar: Matron... Please leave us...  
Sabin: I'm outta here! I'm forsaking this war-sick realm for my dignity  
and freedom.  
Sabin: You said you were sick of it too, right!?  
Edgar: ... freedom...  
Edgar: What'll happen to this realm if we both leave? And what would Dad  
say...?  
Edgar: Sabin, let's settle this with the toss of a coin.  
Edgar: If it's heads, you win. We'll choose whichever path we want, with  
out any regrets. Okay?  
Edgar: This is for Dad! _




\- - -

 **Dissolution** , n.

  1. Decomposition into fragments, parts, or elements; disintegration
  

  2. Indulgence in sensual pleasures; debauchery
  

  3. The undoing or breaking of a bond, tie, union, partnership, etc; dismissal; dispersal
  

  4. Extinction of life; death; decease
  

  5. Annulment or termination of a formal or legal bond, tie, contract
  

  6. A bringing or coming to an end; decay; termination
  



\- - -

“My lord,” Matron said, as she closed the door to the infirmary behind her, and Edgar knew.

The tone of her voice said everything; when, Edgar wondered, had he become quite so adept at reading not just dictionaries and manuals, but the language of people? Emotions, inflections, implications: words upon words, buried within a tone of voice, or a face. Or was it in this case so obvious - the sorrow, regret, concern of a woman already mourning - that even a grease-monkey like himself could understand it?

“I am so very sorry,” she said, and nodded. That tiny motion of her head, confirming something so grand and profound and life-changing: Edgar could have thought for hours on the profound irony, except that her eyes were so very, very sad.

 _Oh, Dad._

"Thank you for everything, Matron," Edgar said, and it was amazing that his voice was still his own, breathless as he was from running the entire way, the path between his rooms and the infirmary becoming infinitely long in his haste. "We appreciate everything you've done for him these last few days." She looked more upset than he felt, yet, his heart still paused in a space-time grief couldn't touch; Edgar nodded toward the door, for her, because she needed a comfort he couldn't give.

Matron left. Edgar sat down in a nearby chair, expecting the world to crash down around him: wondering when the panic would seize, when the tears would start. Could he scream yet? How about now? At which moment would the realization set in? When would the weight fall onto his shoulders? When it crashed, would it make a sound? Would he?

After a handful of minutes, during which Edgar stared at his hands, his feet, the walls, the oil stains on his pants, his hands again, and yet felt nothing, nothing, _nothing--_

Edgar stood up and left the waiting room.

\- - -

The basement of Figaro Castle was a precariously perilous place, no safe haven for the untrained – which suited Edgar fine at the moment. The roar of industry drowned out sound; the rumble of machinery vibrated through his bones; the hiss of steam reminded him to think only of the job, only of the wrench in his hand, avoid all other distractions and painful thoughts and awful realizations: concentrate. His focus was narrowed to only the joint he was working on right now, so much that he almost did not hear the approaching footsteps over the din of the motor and the echoes of his too-empty, still-hollow heart beating in time.

“Edgar?” His name blended in with the hum of the engines and the throbbing whine of the pumps: it was almost as if Figaro itself was speaking to him, and Edgar paused. He didn’t turn around, but not for lack of wanting: he was wedged between the winch and the wall, his feet splayed on the coolant piping as he loosened a connecting bolt. It wasn’t the safest position, and he’d been yelled at many times by the palace engineer, because all it took was one slip and—

“Get down here,” Sabin said, his voice rough and angry and thick and decidedly _not_ part of Figaro's smoothly-oiled machinery: too organic, too raw, too fiery-powerful and human. Something in Sabin's voice caught at his heart, and Edgar dropped the wrench and slid down the wall, haphazardly, feeling his trousers catch on something rough and not really caring.

Sabin’s face was red. Edgar couldn’t tell whether it was from crying or from beating hell out of something; Sabin’s face had the same sort of reaction to most emotions.

“So… they went and told you,” Edgar said, feeling woefully inadequate. He’d gone to find Sabin, but he’d ended up taking the shortcut through the basement labs to avoid questioning servants, and of course that steam leak had caught his eye, and – the excuses sounded as lame inside his head as they would have out loud. He should have been the one to tell Sabin.

"Yeah." Sabin shifted, as if he couldn't decide which way to move: his hands clenched, his arms awkwardly stiff. Edgar had seen those fists channel enough power to splinter wood with fluid and fiery grace; now they looked taut, frayed, brittle and easily broken. He wondered whether he should hug his brother.

"Are you alright?" he asked instead.

Sabin shrugged, and looked away. "Are you?"

Edgar said nothing, again; there weren't really any words he could have come up with to describe the giant vacant hole in his chest. Sabin's eyes were like an echo of his own heart: Sabin had always worn his emotions across his face like embroidered flags, whereas Edgar had hidden them, tied up within fancy words and eloquent gestures. Now, however, it throbbed like a wound, his own heartache on Sabin's face, feelings he couldn't express worked in detail across his twin for all to see.

“Well, we have to do something,” Sabin said, and in his voice was the low thunder-rumble of anger Edgar recognized from countless years of fighting, and he flinched in surprise. He'd expected grief, and upset, and maybe even resentment, but this was the sort of frustrated rage Sabin saved up for days and then spent all at once in an explosion of outraged violence, and Edgar couldn't tell why--

Sabin must have caught the look on Edgar’s face, because he barked out one loud burst of not-laughter, the most terrible and awful sound Edgar had heard in days. “You know they’re saying he was poisoned?”

And _now_ Edgar’s heart sank in his chest, clenching with emotion, as if a giant set of pliers were trying to pull it from his body. “No,” he said, taking a step back, still amazed at the feeling of dread and terror and anger: he was mostly surprised that such a hateful feeling was actually centered around his _heart._ “That, I did not know.”

Sabin shook his head, and now Edgar saw the glimmers of tears in his eyes – and the tell-tale scrapes along his chin, where some training implement must have struck back; so it had been both fighting _and_ crying. “I figured you’d come right down here and hide from it all,” he said, almost mockingly, although Edgar could see through the bitter bite; Sabin meant no harm.

He shrugged, in reply. It was no secret that the inner workings of Figaro Castle were his safe haven, much like the peaceful solemn sands of the Training Grounds were Sabin’s. His heart did another somersault-twist. “Where did you hear that?”

Sabin shook his head. “Maids. They're a bunch of miserable, gossiping idiots,” and his voice was bitter with years of hating his birthright.

Edgar put a hand on his brother’s forearm, then thought better of it and withdrew it, wiping it instead on his pants. Trails of oil marked the lines of his fingers, like claw-marks. “We can look into it,” he said softly.

\- - -

“My lord,” Matron said, her voice still softened with sorrow and pity, “I cannot say.”

Edgar glanced sideways at Sabin, noticing his brother’s clamped, unhappy mouth. “Surely you must have some idea,” he said.

She sniffled, and patted at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “The desert fever strikes so many, my lord. There is no reason to believe—“

"Then why do they believe it?" Sabin asked. He shifted, and the look on his face turned sulky. "If there's no reason to believe it, then why are all the little nurses running around telling everybody it was?"

Matron had been the head nurse, and still acted like it on occasion, her age and royal favor giving her authority no one argued with; she drew herself up a little, managing to sniffle and look proudly offended at the same time. "My lords, they have no right to make such insinuations."

"All we want is the truth," Edgar said, gently but firmly, including both Matron and Sabin in his quick cutoff gesture. "Let us focus on that, rather than casting blame."

Sabin grumbled a little, but he stilled, and cast a meaningful glance at Edgar.

"Rumors come from somewhere, Matron. And this was different from desert fever.” Edgar prodded with his voice, imagining Matron as a stuck bolt that just required encouragement. “This struck so fast, and so powerfully. I’ve seen desert fever linger for weeks, with no side effects so ill.”

All he needed was for her to suspect it, perhaps – a reasonable doubt, even. If someone could give him reason, then they could investigate it and figure out what had actually gone wrong; he didn’t dare do it without cause, but it made his stomach twist unpleasantly to think of even the possibility of poison. Edgar glanced again, sidelong, at Sabin; his twin’s hands were in his lap, clenched tightly.

She sighed. “We see unusual cases every year, my lord. Every year healthy men succumb to it, even with the best of treatment. Every year, there are a few for whom even the Sand Ruby has no effect.” She folded the kerchief slowly, as if lost in thought, still sniffling. “We cannot say it was _not_ with any kind of confidence.”

Edgar shook his head again. Beside him, Sabin shifted his weight, clothes ruffling in discomfort. “We have an advanced laboratory,” Edgar began. “Is there no way we can test for anything like that?”

She spread her hands, helplessly. “I do not know, my lords. A doctor might.”

“You’re not gonna do anything?” Sabin’s voice cracked with anger as he spoke, finally, sitting up straight in his seat. “You were the last one there, Matron, and you’re not gonna do a single thing to help us?”

Edgar reached out, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder as both solidarity and warning. “Thank you, Matron,” he said. “I understand there isn’t much you can do. Can you think of anything else we should know?”

The old nurse sniffled again, but drew herself upright, nobly. “Your father,” she said, quietly. “His last words were a wish to see Figaro divided between you."

Edgar felt his mouth twitch in a surprisingly wry smile at the sentiment; his father had often joked of it, his grand hopes to retire early and proudly watch his sons on the throne – but some strange strangled sound came out of Sabin's throat, and Edgar started, turning to look at his twin.

Sabin jumped up, the chair clattering away behind him. “Are you serious?” he cried. “This is nonsense! I can’t – everyone’s saying the Gestahlian Empire poisoned Dad, and the only thing on your mind is who’s going to be the next King?” And Edgar winced; it was just like Sabin to barrel on through this, knock over everyone’s defenses and aim for the center of the problem; as if mysterious poisons, fatherless twins, and a kingless kingdom were all things one could fix with the application of enough heat and force and sheer brute strength. Matron's face fell, and Edgar felt his heart wrench in sympathy.

“Sabin...” Edgar stood, clutching his hand more firmly on Sabin’s shoulder. He turned to Matron, giving her a wobbling smile. “Matron, thank you. Please leave us.”

He waited until they were alone, and then turned to Sabin, grabbing his shoulders now with both hands and giving him a little shake to get his attention. Sabin looked up, his face angry and wary both; Edgar shook his head. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What do you mean?” Sabin’s voice was sulky, and he looked away from Edgar – but made no attempt to break out of his grasp. “You heard her. All she cares about is figuring out who’s going to rule next – she doesn’t care about Dad, or anything else.”

“You’re not being very fair,” Edgar said, his brow creasing. “I doubt Matron's even thinking about the throne, Sabin, she - someone she cared about very much just _died_ ," and his voice barely choked on the word, barely; "and all she wants, now, is to deliver Dad's last wish to us.” He paused, and then squeezed Sabin’s shoulders. “You know she cares about us, Sabin. Don’t sell Matron short because she’s not—“

“What,” Sabin said, angry, breaking away from Edgar’s grasp. “Because she’s not Mom?”

“Because she’s not talking about poison.” Edgar took another step towards his twin, shaking his head. He’d seen Sabin angry before – everyone in the castle saw Sabin angry at least daily – but never before had he seen this sort of pent-up rage, mechanical energy storing itself inside his brother as the screws twisted over and over. “Sabin, what’s wrong? Honestly?”

“Everything’s wrong. It’s ridiculous,” Sabin said, turning away again; he rubbed at one forearm. “It’s pathetic, is what it is.”

“Matron was trying to help, not to offend you.” Edgar kept his voice low, intently watching his brother’s face for any kind of reaction. He gauged Sabin like a stuck spring; the right nudge could release all that energy safely, but the wrong tool applied in the wrong place could lose someone an eye. “You know what Dad's wishes were. You know how badly he wanted us both to have a place in Figaro. Matron probably feels honored to share that dream with her King. Be fair, Sabin."

“It _isn’t_ fair,” Sabin snapped, and turned to leave. “This place is pathetic. Nobody cares about anything that matters.”

Edgar understood, at that, or at least thought he did; the refrain of his brother’s years as an unlikely prince, fighting at the chains his heritage had placed around his neck. “Sabin, this isn’t about you. Please don’t do this.”

Sabin turned at the door, his face bright red with anger. “Maybe if somebody else cared about me,” he said, his voice low, “I wouldn’t have to.”

\- - -

“Go away,” Sabin said.

“No.” Edgar stood firm, in the doorway to the Training Grounds; it had not been hard to guess where his brother would be. “I’m not going to leave you alone to – to beat up some poor helpless thing until - until your fists hurt so badly you can't think.”

Sabin turned around, and lifted his hands towards Edgar, showing him the tarnished brass fighting knuckles he’d so recently begun to favor – and revealing the blood and bruising of the skin beneath. Edgar gasped, swore, stepped forward and reached for his twin’s injured hands—but Sabin snatched them back to his chest and gave Edgar a hunted look.

“Pain?” Sabin’s voice was low. “Do you really think this is more pain than—“ He turned away, mid-sentence, throwing a punch into the air.

Edgar dropped his hands to his sides, wishing he knew some way to give Sabin the answers he craved so badly. Sabin had always turned to the physical for release; nothing else seemed to calm him, and truthfully, Edgar missed the days he rivaled his twin in strength and a simple smack over the head could, however contrarily, make them both feel better. Even though Edgar knew the physical strain of fighting would slowly and safely dissipate that angry energy Sabin was carrying, he still hated seeing the torn skin and bloody knuckles it left behind.

“Just don’t be an idiot,” Edgar said, hoping Sabin could hear in his voice how much he meant it: how much he depended on his brother, how badly he wanted to fix things, how strongly and painfully and severely he, too, missed their father. Then Edgar turned on his heel and left, before he had to watch Sabin’s anger destroy another sandbag and the rest of the skin on his fingers.

“Wait.”

Edgar stopped. For a moment, everything was quiet. The Training Grounds felt empty, drained of air and life; the desert sun beat down on his back. The air was thick with the heat of the sand. He thought for a moment about the sand, absorbing Figaro’s sun by day and radiating heat long after the light had faded. He thought about the heat of the Figaro crypt, where bodies honored by ceremony and packed with sand were laid to rest, forever, beneath dry sand and peaceful winds. He thought about an energy cycle: there were always losses, always, no matter how careful one was or how precisely engineered the plan. Energy was always lost somewhere; all one could do, really, was minimize the damage.

Edgar turned around slowly, half expecting to get punched in the face. Sabin stood there, his head bowed, bloody fists clenched at his sides. Edgar started as a tear fell from his brother’s face, quickly absorbed by the thirsty sand at their feet. He took a tentative step closer.

Sabin looked up. His eyes were full of angry tears. “I miss him,” he said, simply. Raw, like the sand; haunted, like the deserts.

Edgar felt his own eyes well up. “I do too,” he said, looking away – out, away from the castle, across the horizon. He was grateful; Sabin wasn’t much of a man of words, but this was as much of an apology as was needed between brothers. He glanced over at Sabin. His brother had turned to face the horizon as well, and Edgar took in his profile: strong brow, desert-blond hair, fierce chin. Sabin was still and taut with fury, his entire body tense like a pulled crossbow, but he also looked -- lost. Frightened. Resigned, perhaps. Edgar felt it like an echo, inside his own heart.

Edgar swallowed the emotion deep inside of himself, hoping he was wrong.

\- - -

The door slammed open, and the bang made Edgar jump; the papers before him scattered, lines of numbers and sums fluttering through the air and re-settling like thick beige snowflakes.

“They won’t let me see his body,” Sabin said; his bloody hands were clenched into fists at his side, and his face was stone-blank and pale. Edgar recognized all of the warning signs, and stood up, slowly, resting his fingertips on the pile of documents he’d been reading.

“Close the door,” he said.

Sabin turned, and threw the door closed with force; it slammed into the frame, and Edgar was sure they could hear the echo in South Figaro, but Sabin breathed a bit easier, for a moment.

“Now quietly,” Edgar ordered softly, “or the whole castle will hear. What happened?”

Sabin turned back to him, and Edgar belatedly noticed another warning sign: his eyes had narrowed, angrily, and his wounded fists were still clenched. His twin took two heavy stalking steps and stood right across the table from him, so close his steely gaze burned.

“I’ll be quiet only because you asked me to,” Sabin said, his voice deceptively conversational, “but I am not going to stay quiet about it for long, so you’d better listen and help me out.” He leaned forward, bracing himself with his fists on the edge of the desk – and then glanced down, brow wrinkling in obvious disgust as he took in the pile of parchment.

“What is this,” Sabin spat, leaping backwards, “tax codes? Levies? Why the hell are you in here, going over this mess, when we don’t know what happened to our own _father?_ ” His voice cracked, and Edgar’s heart broke, again, crushed into pieces by the weight of his own sorrow and his brother’s anger; “How can you do this?” Sabin whispered, his eyes now wide. “How can you just go on like it doesn’t matter?”

Edgar swallowed, paused, and swallowed again, because his throat was tight and his eyes were stinging and he _wasn’t_ going to let go, not here, not while Sabin needed him, not over District 18’s new boundary-line proposition, not with everything—

He tried to explain, talking slowly as to not choke on his own words. “Our –our world may have stopped, Sabin, but Figaro's has not. Business must go on.” He gestured at the stack of papers, gently, aware of every movement; also aware of the tingling sense of his brother’s fury, pent-up for now but bubbling and simmering beneath those taut muscles, the energy filling up the room. “There are still workers who need to be paid. Families who need to eat, need to survive. That doesn’t—it doesn’t stop just because we want it to.” The distraction of the work was almost a relief, but Edgar didn't say it out loud; it was hard to explain the way the ritualistic repetition of tax forms and petitions kept him from thinking, from processing, from realizing the long slow empty hole left in his life.

He turned his eyes back to Sabin. They exchanged a long look; Edgar watched as the familiar face, his-but-not-his, went through a series of contortions: anger, resentment, grief, and then resigned, reluctant support.

“I’m sorry, brother.” Sabin bowed his head; Edgar watched him clench his fists one last time, and then release, his fingers spreading wide as he exhaled slowly. Edgar noticed he’d left bloody smudges of dirt on the edge of the desk. “I’m not helping. And I should be. I’m just making things worse for you, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” Edgar said, instantly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. It isn’t bad at all – in fact, it’s better.” He gestured at the room, weakly. “At least this way one of us can—grieve. I’d rather have that than both of us, locked up in here all day.”

Sabin looked back up, a sad smile on his lips. “Let’s see if a dumb ox like me can help you out any,” he offered, and reached out to brush his rough, bruised fingers against Edgar’s arm, like an apology. “And then we can both go see Dad.”

\- - -

"I'm not going in there," Sabin said, stopping abruptly.

Edgar paused, his hand still on the door to the infirmary. "You know," he said softly, not turning around, "if you'd just come with me, we could get all of this taken care of by someone who knows what they're doing."

Sabin shook his head, and then turned away from the door, towards the corridor leading upstairs. "I'm not going to deal with those selfish, pathetic gossip fiends any more. I don't trust them."

Edgar closed his eyes, and tried not to sigh too loudly. "You don't trust them to put a bandage on your knuckles?"

Sabin shrugged, his back still to Edgar. "This was your idea, brother," he said, his voice a low stab. "You're the one who likes all their fussing and pampering and attention. You spend enough time here, anyway."

"You trust me, but not a trained nurse." Now Edgar _did_ sigh. "Fine," he said, pushing the door open. "I'll be right back."

It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to charm wares from the infirmary nurses – they were a young lot, pretty, and easy to flatter. Usually Edgar enjoyed his visits, sneaking out a stray roll of bandages or perhaps a tonic from the elderly matrons who ran the infirmary like a store, complete with giggles and flirtatious brushes of fingers and coy smiles. Now, he felt – bland, empty, distracted too much by the blood and bruising on Sabin's hands and the looming thunderstorm of the funeral to play any of the appropriate games.

The supply room was not, as he'd hoped, abandoned; there was a young woman there, small and dark-haired and very pretty, tucking away freshly-washed linens and towels. She glanced up as Edgar slipped inside the room, and Edgar tried very hard to summon forth something like his usual mannerism. His smile felt crooked.

Her smile, on the other hand, was welcoming: beaming and seductive all at once, and that analytical portion of his brain was already spinning: _a smirk, and a bit of flattery, and she'd be all yours,_ said the voice in his head, and it wasn't the first time Edgar had played that game, either. And for a second he thought about it, and wondered when it had become so damn unappealing.

"My lord Edgar," she said, her voice low, and Edgar despaired: she was one of the _easy_ targets, the kind that aimed right back and made missing a non-option. "How can I help you?" She obviously expected a response, and a special one; there was a glint in her eyes.

Edgar cursed his own reputation. Even a week ago he might have jumped at the chance, but now his smile felt mechanical, his limbs lethargic and swollen: had it been so long? How did he feel so old? "I just need bandages," he said, and his words were so obviously broken and stilted; why did her smile broaden? All he saw were teeth. "And a potion," he added, lamely.

"Of course," she said, and she stood up, leaving the pile of laundry where it sat, and he wanted to tell her not to bother, to just point him towards the right cupboard, but he couldn't even gather the energy for that. She paused, glancing at him, as she crossed the room; "My lord Edgar," she murmured, "are you quite alright?"

The concern wasn't even feigned; or he didn't think so; he couldn't even tell, and he tried to dredge up a knuckle's-worth of care and failed. It wasn't even revulsion; she _was_ quite pretty, and seemed friendly enough, and genuine – it was just a great blankness, an empty space where once he'd felt excitement, attraction, even raw arousal. The realization surprised Edgar, and he even paused to look at her again; she tilted her head, a small smile on her lips, at his regard. Even a week ago – but not now.

"I'm fine," he said, finally. "Please."

Concern and disappointment warred in her eyes, but he was the prince – the king – one of them, anyway – and she handed him a roll of bandages and a potion with cool, formal disdain.

He caught up with Sabin on the staircase to his room.

"Well," Sabin said, as he sat in the window-seat on the landing, and Edgar took a look at the bruising. "That didn't take you nearly as long as I thought it would."

"What, to get bandages?" Edgar tugged Sabin's hand into the direct sunlight, so that he could see where to dab with the potion; of course, Sabin's hands were dirty, grains of sand in the open wounds. "They're just sitting on a shelf. You could have waited."

Sabin shrugged. "I saw there was only one girl in there, and I thought I'd give you two some time alone." The words were teasing, but just barely: Sabin hadn't ever shared his brother's flirtatious tendencies, but he hadn't ever shown any ill will towards Edgar's favor in that matter.

Edgar shrugged. "Not really important, is it?" He dipped the edge of a strip of cloth into the potion and began to clean it out; Sabin hissed as the cloth touched torn skin, and his hand jerked. Edgar simply yanked Sabin's hand back into his lap. "What are you, twelve? It's just a potion." He wrestled Sabin's arm under his other elbow, and continued to dab. "If you'd just come in with me, you could have had a real nurse."

"I'm done with that place," Sabin said, flatly.

Edgar glanced up, surprised at the vitriol in Sabin's voice. "What did the infirmary ever do to you? They're skilled healers – all properly trained. And I've always found them kind and helpful."

"I don't want to be in the same room as any of them," Sabin spat, angry and certain. "They can gossip all they want and tease me about the Empire's poison, tease me about _Dad,_ but then they refuse to cough up any kind of useful information that might help us catch the murderous bastards who did it."

It suddenly clicked into place, in a terrible way that made Edgar's heart sink, hollow and distant and sick. He turned his attention back to Sabin's hand, wrapping the bandages around his brother's knuckles, trying to think of it as sealant tape on a pipe rather than blood and bone. "Is there anyone – do you remember who it was?"

Sabin shook his head. "I never got to know them like you did," and now there was a faint hint of bitterness, for Edgar had known all the infirmary girls, some multiple times. "If you'd been there, you might have known."

"We can ask," Edgar said hastily, releasing Sabin's hand and grabbing the other one; Sabin let him have it, no longer fighting his brother's grasp. "If the girls heard something from a doctor or a nurse, we could—"

"Forget it," Sabin said; his fingers clenched, a brief spasm against Edgar's thigh. "It's not worth it. None of them'll tell us the truth anyway. They don't care about the truth – they don't care about Dad, or about us, at all. I'm done with it."

Edgar poured a quick splash of potion over a particularly nasty bruise, and tried to gently rub it into Sabin's skin with his thumb; when he glanced up, there was an odd look on Sabin's face, one he didn't recognize. "Sorry," Edgar said, "does that hurt?"

Sabin shook his head. "No," he said quickly.

"Sabin," he said, or tried to say, wanting it to sound like a joke, "I doubt you're going to be able to avoid the infirmary for the rest of your life. Not with the way you punch things."

Sabin laughed at that, as he was meant to, but it didn't seem to reach his eyes.

\- - -

Edgar could feel his father’s absence, like a physical force, or an ache. The council was too old, too strong, too set-in-their-ways, and he and Sabin were just too young, too new, and too distracted by grief to do anything productive or useful. His father was like a missing part, a broken pipe, and he and Sabin just weren’t yet the right size and shape to fit into the mechanics of such a well-refined system.

The argument continued around him, voices blurring in his exhausted mind into a wave of sound, seeping in through his clothing, filling his pores. He leaned back in his chair, pressing fingers to his temples, and caught sight of Sabin – on the edge of his chair, face furious and growing steadily redder - _oh, no, Sabin,_ Edgar meant to say, but the words were already too late –

Sabin surged up, out of the chair, roaring: “What the hell is wrong with all of you?” Cultured faces turned, powdered wigs spun, and Sabin stared it all down with the unstoppable, unchained force of a firestorm. “This is pathetic!” He threw his hands up in the air.

The Chancellor of Finance carefully removed his monocle and pierced Sabin with an icy look, eyebrow raised in cold, offended question. “Excuse me, my lord prince?”

Sabin jumped off of the dais and slammed his fists into the table, making pens jump and papers ruffle. “Look at you. You sit around this table, bickering about golden pennies and wondering which great new invention to invest in now, when _my father’s_ rotting dead from poison – and you’re talking about giving money to his murderers! You’re a war-crazy bunch of filthy politicians!”

Edgar sat very still, gripping the arms of his throne tightly, trying to fight the panic in his chest, trying to argue against the growing feeling that he was losing his brother before his very eyes. He’d lost his father, and now he was losing the realm, losing his twin, everything gone, broken into pieces, all of the potential energy dissipating into steam and regrets—

Another chancellor stood up and shook a rolled-up piece of paper at Sabin. “Now look here, young prince,” he said sternly. “There's no evidence that the Gestahlian Empire had anything to do with—“

“No _evidence?_ ” Sabin bellowed, and he slammed a fist into the table again, his face fierce with anger and grief. “Nobody’s even taken a second to look into it. No wonder there's no proof! But nobody cares, right? As long as it’s business as usual with the Empire.”

Sabin stalked to the door, and then turned to give the room one more raking gaze. “Pathetic,” he said, and Edgar wondered whether anyone else could hear the tears in his brother’s voice, or if it was only obvious to him, the twin, the only one equipped to translate these emotions. “They won’t get away with this,” Sabin said, and then he left the room, slamming the double doors behind him.

Edgar sat in the throne for one more second, one more long and dragging second, fighting every urge he had to run after Sabin and cry, ask, demand to know why he was doing this, why he was lashing out against every single thing in the castle that could help them, why he was turning on everything their father had believed in and worked for and left for them, like a polished treasure all wrapped up and ready. Edgar’s heart broke, again and again, torn between a throne unfilled and a kingdom unruled and a brother he needed more than anything else, angry and hurtful and lost—

\--but he couldn't think about it, because then he'd break, along with his heart and everything else around him. Edgar took a long, deep, rattling breath, and tried to quiet the rush of his blood and the pounding in his chest, barely hearing the mumbling of the council deep in the background.

Then he stood up. _Some_ things were still within his power.

Every eye in the room turned to him as well, but unlike his brother, Edgar could hold his anger and grief in check. He nodded, because he could not smile: a smile would break his face, break his composure. A nod was safe.

“My lords,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm and even as he swept his cape in a deep bow. “My deepest apologies for the disruption. We are all still grieving, and grief is a powerful emotion. It does not settle easily, nor quickly.”

Heads began to nod in relief, and Edgar took the two steps down from the dais carefully, pausing at the end of the table to rest his fingers upon the wood Sabin had struck. He imagined it tingled, still warm and ringing with the force of his brother’s anger. “My lords,” he said, stronger this time, and the room dropped to silence as the faces of the council turned curious and wary.

“Just because Sabin is grieving does not make him wrong.” Edgar spoke clearly and forcefully, putting all of the weight of his own hidden frustration into the words. “He too is a prince of this realm, and I do not think I need to remind anyone of my father's wish that we share Figaro between us." He took a small bit of satisfaction at the widening eyes of the chancellors, the gaping mouths of the heads of district: oh, if only Sabin had stayed! “He has as much right to speak his mind to you as I, and I will not apologize for my brother’s words or actions. Although I will apologize for his manner of delivery.” He rapped a knuckle against the table, and to his relief, one or two of the men laughed.

“Remember who you serve,” Edgar said clearly, now, slowly looking around the table, letting his gaze fall on each man in turn. “We will look into this, although we will do it with caution, tact, and common sense. All rumors come from somewhere, and I cannot be the only one in Figaro who wants to put this one to rest with the truth.”

He walked to the door, relishing the silence that followed him. “I thank you in advance for your attention to this matter,” Edgar said, with a small selfish bit of glee; his father had used those words often on his children, and oh, how he loved being able to turn them back on the council. “I am going to find my brother. Let us reconvene in the afternoon to discuss your plans.”

\- - -

It wasn't hard to find Sabin. Edgar knew, like an instinct, where his brother would have run; and he knew, like an instinct, what he'd need, even though they hadn't sparred in years – not since Edgar had developed a preference for the long-range protection a spear would give his face, and Sabin had rebelled by experimenting in the brutalities of unarmed combat. But the door to the Training Grounds was open, and Edgar picked up the first weapon he found: a wooden sword, discarded by the chest which held training weapons, as if it were waiting for him.

Sabin was hacking away at a training dummy with a greatsword obviously too big for him, and when he heard Edgar's footsteps he turned. His face was red, and pained, and he looked ready to argue – but then his eyes fell on Edgar's wooden sword, and something clicked. The anger on his face was replaced with a raw, fierce gratitude – but then he leapt, and Edgar swung the sword to block Sabin's forceful strike, scrambling to angle the wooden blade enough; their weapons met with the crackling of splintering wood.

Edgar hadn't fought his twin like this in _years,_ and he should have been angry about it, _furious_ and raging at a brother who couldn't control his own emotions, but – it was exhilarating, and the feeling sat oddly in his stomach as he lashed out with the wooden sword again, striking away Sabin's next blow.

They'd always been equals, in sparring, matched fairly well; Sabin's strength gave him an advantage, but Edgar was often too level-headed and calculating to cede it to him, and nothing had changed. Sabin came forth with an onslaught of furious blows, and Edgar simply concentrated on parrying, sending enough force back with his own blocks to keep Sabin coming. Sabin had always sparred with an unstoppable intensity, and Edgar found himself sweating and breathing hard as he strove to keep up with the fury and frustration - but he knew as long as he could match it, as long as he could endure, as long as he could continue to draw out all of Sabin's anger one fierce blow at a time, eventually Sabin would stop.

Finally, Edgar caught Sabin's greatsword in a parry and rather than thrusting it aside, he slid down to lock guards, and held - and locked his eyes with Sabin's through the stalemate of their swords. "Are you trying to make our lives harder?" he asked, an echo of Sabin's frustration burning in his own veins, his voice thick with it. "Sabin, you cannot treat the council like that, even if they deserve it."

Sabin twisted, suddenly, tearing the sword out of Edgar's hands – and releasing his at the same time, so that they soared through the air, crashing and clattering into the ground out of Edgar's sight. He stood there for a moment, disarmed and panting, his eyes on the ground.

"I'm sick of it," Sabin said finally, and his voice was the low growling prelude to an antlion's roar. "I'm sick of dealing with them. I'm sick of having to play nice. I can't sit there and look them in the face and say nothing when I know they don't care about Dad."

"Sabin, life goes on in this kingdom," Edgar said, his heart twisting and crashing like the wooden swords, stiff and tangled at once; "it isn't that they don't care," he continued, "they simply know they have things to do, and for them, the grief is more distant and easier to set aside."

"I don't care!" Sabin spat, and this was even closer to the roar, animalistic and primal. "I don't know what's happened to this place, but it's turning into a nightmare. They're all a bunch of selfish politicians who _hate me._ "

"Sabin," Edgar said, astonished. He took a step towards his twin. "When you lash out at Figaro, you cannot be surprised when she takes a step back." He took another step now, frustration channeling through him into surprisingly articulate anger. "You can't keep doing this." Now he was only inches away from Sabin's face, holding his gaze, unyielding: he couldn't let Sabin break; it would break them, break this, all of this, their proud nation and living castle.

"No," Sabin gasped, "I can't." He turned his face away from Edgar's, briefly, and Edgar realized just how close they were: fingerwidths apart, both of them breathing hard from sparring. Sabin looked back up, and the anger had melted from him, replaced with a desperate sorrow as easy to read as a book. "I can't do this, Edgar," Sabin said, softly. "Any of this."

"Yes, you can," Edgar said, and he reached out to clutch at Sabin's shoulders. "Dad had faith in you, didn't he? And I do too. Figaro needs you, Sabin."

Sabin shook his head. "Not now." He moved to the side, but Edgar wouldn't let him go, and the same odd look passed over Sabin's face as he glanced at Edgar's hands and then back up, at his face - a knuckle's-width away, if that. Edgar paused, surprised at the strange unreadable expression on Sabin's face: his twin, wearing a strange mix of emotions he could put no name to, something steeped in desperation and despair but otherwise unrecognizable, when just moments ago his face had been an echo of Edgar's own heart.

Then Sabin leaned in, even closer, and the look vanished. "Let's go away," Sabin said, his voice hushed, so close to Edgar's ear it was almost a lover's-whisper. "Just for a while. Let's go somewhere else; I hear Narshe is installing some new fancy steam engines. You could help. We both could."

Edgar simply looked: Sabin's face was alight, his eyes bright with it. Sabin breathed, almost closer, and Edgar sighed, because he looked so intent on – on something.

"Sabin," Edgar said softly, and it was almost all he needed to say. Sabin flinched.

Edgar's heart rose in his throat; he couldn't bear to hurt his brother, and so he started talking: "I don't know if that would help at all," he said slowly. "Would it help you?"

"Just for a while," Sabin urged. "I just – I can't be here, with everything going on, and Dad—" His voice choked, and now he looked away from Edgar, shame coloring his cheeks. "I just need to go somewhere, but I'm not going to leave you here by yourself."

Edgar dropped his hands from Sabin's shoulders, suddenly awkward and too-close with the admission. "Thanks," he mumbled, and Sabin took a step backwards, shrugging.

A long pause dropped between them. Edgar felt like he'd forgotten something, as if there had been a million questions he'd had for his brother just a second ago, but now his mouth and mind were empty.

"Anyway," Sabin said, his voice rough. "Think about it."

\- - -

Edgar stared down at the piece of paper on his desk, and sighed. The top was a series of black cross-outs, each one darker than the next, some with blossoming swirls and curlicues added to the edges; the bottom was blank. It was midnight, and his candles had almost burnt to the bottoms, and every word he wrote hurt like a stab to the chest, and yet he had nothing to—

There was a knock at the door; Edgar set down the pen, stood up, and opened it. Sabin was standing there, a familiar-looking bottle in his left hand and two small glasses in the right. Edgar paused, surprised, his hand still on the doorknob; Sabin looked back at him, his face shadowed, pleading. “Please, for the love of the Goddesses,” Sabin said, his voice dark and guttural, “tell me I’m not the only one who’s absolutely miserable right now.”

“Come in,” Edgar breathed.

Sabin settled on the floor, leaning against Edgar’s bed, and set down the glasses; he poured a generous serving of brandy, and handed one over to Edgar.

“This is Dad’s, isn’t it,” Edgar said, sniffing – and then catching himself, with a lump in his throat: “I mean was.” The funeral was tomorrow, and he still hadn’t stopped talking about his father as if he were still alive.

“Does it matter?” Sabin’s grin was a flash of pale teeth in the fading candlelight, and it wasn’t a happy one.

Edgar settled back against his desk, stretching out his legs before him. “Have you written your speech yet?”

Sabin shrugged. “What would I say? Dad’s dead, and nobody cares that he was murdered? It doesn't get any better over time, and you’re all a bunch of bastards?”

“I don’t suggest that,” Edgar said darkly. The brandy burnt peach smoke across his tongue and throat. “Funny,” he said eventually, after a silence. “I keep expecting Dad to knock on the door and yell at us to go to bed, like he always did.”

“I know,” Sabin said sadly, and Edgar felt something nudge his leg as Sabin shifted across the floor. “I was half expecting the lecture on pilfering the brandy again, when I was down in the kitchens.”

They drank in dark and silence. Edgar listened to the sound of Sabin’s breathing, and felt closer to his twin than he had in days – they’d done this before, Sabin with something stolen from Dad’s stores and Edgar flirting his way into a picnic basket and then meeting—

“Hey,” he said into the darkness, his heart lifting in surprising joy. “Let’s go up on the roof.”

The trip was intent and solemn. They made their way through the castle side-by-side, glasses of brandy still clutched in their hands as they weaved through the hallways and passages, slipping up the side staircase and one-handedly climbing the ladder. The night air was fresh, crisp with the onset of night. Edgar sat down, leaning back against the still-warm stone of the turret. Sabin sat down beside him, their shoulders just touching. He rested the bottle of brandy between them.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all,” Sabin said, finally. His eyes were on the horizon; Edgar’s eyes were on his twin, drinking in the sight of Sabin’s sadness, wondering how he could fix that. It wasn’t as if he could take a wrench to his brother’s heart, no more than he could tighten his own.

“It’s alright,” Edgar said. “Don’t worry about your speech. You can stand with me, and I’ll read – something.” Maybe the words would just come to him tomorrow. All the words in his heart now were for Sabin, and although it did make him feel a little guilty, he was convinced his father would have rather he care for his brother, in truth.

Sabin hung his head and chuckled. “You just don’t want me to speak.”

Edgar's hands twitched in frustration; he fought the urge to clench them into fists. “You can say whatever you’d like, Sabin. You're right about more than you'll admit, you know. You shouldn't give up so quickly.”

“Yeah.” Sabin grumbled a bit into his glass as he drank. He set the glass down and looked at Edgar sidelong. “I heard about that. They’re going to start looking into it, huh?”

"That's one of the things I think you're right about," Edgar pointed out, and was thrilled to see the expression of surprise flicker across Sabin's face for a brief moment. "We need to either confirm this, or lay it to rest. So I told the council to do it, and that I - we - expected it done well." He paused. "It's our job to do right by Figaro, in the end."

“Hmm.” Sabin leaned back against the pillar. His shoulder was warm against Edgar’s. Edgar said nothing; just waited, feeling and hearing the rise and fall of his brother’s breath beside him.

“If you could do anything in the world,” Sabin said, “what would you do?”

Edgar paused for thought, and then reached for the bottle, refilling his glass and then Sabin's. "What do you mean, anything?"

Sabin nudged him encouragingly. "Anything," he said. "Forget about Figaro for a second, forget about being Prince or King or any of that. Anything in the world. What would you do?"

Edgar inhaled peach smoke and looked upwards into the star-specked sky, considering the question carefully. These were dangerous thoughts, subjects he'd only contemplate half-awake or half-asleep, freedoms he rarely wanted to acknowledge he didn't have because then—

"Ah," Sabin breathed. Edgar blinked, and turned; Sabin was watching him intently, a strange sort of humorless smirk on his face. "So there are things."

"Sabin," Edgar said slowly, carefully, because this was the crux of it, wasn't it? "Sabin, we cannot just forget about Figaro. She isn't the kind of thing that easily daydreams away – nor does she deserve it."

Sabin nudged him again. "Humor your cranky brother, Edgar. What would you do if you could do anything?"

"Anything?" The word welled up in his throat, and Edgar sipped again, letting the burn of the brandy scour away the emotion. "I suppose I'd actually go to school, rather than just importing professors and scholars. Set up a little factory, work on – inventions, you know? Bring in some of the most brilliant minds, get them all together, and see what we could come up with. Start encouraging a real industrial revolution – the kinds of things that could really improve people's lives." He gestured with a hand, the words failing him in his enthusiasm. "There are things out there that could really help people, just waiting to be discovered."

"A noble dream." Sabin was still watching him, something intent and hot in his eyes that Edgar couldn't place. "But Figaro isn't really standing in your way, is it?"

"Not entirely." Edgar swirled the brandy in his glass, choosing his words carefully; it felt like they were having multiple conversations, multiple meanings on many levels, and he so feared saying something to push his brother over whatever edge they were dancing upon. "In fact, she'd make it easier in some ways. An instant source of funding, and a long-standing credential, for example. But finding the time might be difficult."

Sabin looked away at that, turning his face back out towards the horizon. Edgar watched him, now, intently. "So what would you do, brother," he said, trying to keep his voice light, "if you could do anything? With Figaro or without?"

"I'd leave," Sabin breathed, still looking out into the desert, and the words were so painful Edgar's heart wrenched: it was one thing to think one understood, and yet another to hear one's brother so easily forsake –but that wasn't it, either, entirely; underneath his voice was a raging current of emotions. Sorrow and regret warred with longing, all in two words, sent winging to the horizon.

"And go where?" Keeping his voice balanced was harder than anything else Edgar had ever done; it was like working with a dangerous chemical, where one uncontrolled vibration could set off an explosion.

"Everywhere." Now Sabin's face cleared, and lit up; he glanced over at Edgar, and something spasmed in his chest at how young and beautiful his brother looked in that one moment. "I'd travel the world, learn to live on my own, without all of this—" A handwave incorporated some collection of things Edgar couldn't even guess: the castle, the kingdom, the throne. "Nothing tying you down," Sabin continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Freedom, Edgar. The freedom to do whatever we wanted. None of these responsibilities that don't make sense."

Edgar blinked, trying to construct his sentence carefully. "Figaro isn't a cage keeping us in, Sabin; she's a path to the things we do want. We have opportunities here that other people don't have, would love to have, would give anything to have half of the chances—"

"No." Sabin shook his head, the word plain and blunt. "This _is_ a cage, Edgar. Figaro takes and takes, and it gives nothing back. We're boxed in here, and the only place we can go is where it wants us to go."

"That does not necessarily make it a bad place," Edgar pointed out. "We're in a great position, here."

Sabin shrugged a shoulder. "Wouldn't you like to come? We could just wander the world, for a bit." He glanced down at the glass in his hand, and sighed. "I'd always thought… I thought maybe we could go, together, when we turned eighteen. Do a lap around the world. See one of those famous operas, visit a beach, get good and drunk in Zozo." He chuckled. "Get mugged in Zozo, and have to wash dishes for a month before we can afford the ship back. Something real, Edgar." His voice dropped. "Something _we_ did, ourselves. Not Figaro."

Edgar could say nothing. The thought of the two of them, together and alone, using only their wits and arms to make their way around the world: it was tempting, alluring, the promise of all the things out there beyond Figaro's sands. Why had Sabin never said anything like this before?

Sabin laughed, again, an unhappy sound. "And I want to go now, before Figaro latches onto us both."

Edgar shook his head, again, slowly; "I would love to go with you, Sabin." A deep breath—

Sabin sighed, and looked upward, at the sky. "Don't say it," he murmured, his voice low.

Edgar said nothing; the words were caught in his throat, and he wanted so badly to offer some kind of – comfort, or hope, or maybe even just old-fashioned commiseration. But the words weren't coming forth, and nothing was coming to mind as he'd intended.

Sabin turned, then, the hurt and fear obvious in his eyes. "Do you hate me?" he whispered.

"No," Edgar breathed. He set his glass down. "Sabin, no, how could I ever—?"

"You should." Sabin's mouth twisted, an unhappy grin. "I'm supposed to be getting myself ready to be a king, with you, and all I can think about is getting the hell out of here." He picked up his glass and drained it all in one long gulp. "I look into the future," he said, his voice rough with brandy and frustration, "and all I see is a long, dark, empty hallway. There's nothing for me here."

"That's not true," Edgar said, on his knees now with some strange sudden sense of urgency, glass of brandy forgotten as he gripped Sabin's arm. "It doesn't have to feel like that. The kingdom is what we make of it, remember? Dad always said—"

"Dad said a lot of things." Sabin slumped against the turret. "It's alright, Edgar," he said finally, his voice low. "You can't fix everything. Just let it go."

"Yes I can," Edgar said, his voice so low and intense that he surprised even himself – but Sabin must not have heard, for he simply leaned forward and refilled his glass, offering the bottle to Edgar.

\- - -

Edgar's hands gripped the sides of the podium so tightly his knuckles were white, and his eyes stung; the surface in front of him, bereft of any words or speeches or notes, blurred in and out of his vision.

"My father," he began, praying the words would find their way out of the choked tight mass now acting as his throat; they came out blunted and torn, so he swallowed, and tried again. Beside him, Sabin shifted, and Edgar could feel his sidelong look.

"My father was a King," Edgar managed to say, and once those words were out it was slightly easier to continue, before his vocal chords shut down again. He dropped his hands from the podium, mechanically smoothing out the front of his tunic. "He was a King to all of you – a great King: a fair and just ruler, a supporter of industry, a funder of advancement, a leader in every way a king should be. But for—for Sabin and I, he was more than our King."

His voice choked up again, and Edgar could have died of embarrassment and not even cared, standing there red-faced and teary-eyed before the most powerful nobles of the nation – but then Sabin took a step closer, and Edgar felt his brother's hand grab his, behind the podium, in a rough but reassuring squeeze. The shock of it stopped him for a moment, because he hadn't thought Sabin really cared about any of this – but Sabin squeezed his hand again, and Edgar's heart swelled in gratitude for the support. He took a slow shuddering breath, feeling nothing but Sabin's stable strength, and the edges of bandages he'd himself wrapped round Sabin's knuckles: a rough-edged reminder, against Edgar's skin, that they'd always been there for each other when needed.

Edgar squeezed back, exhaled, and found he could continue, gripping his twin's hand like a lifeline.

"He was the kind of king who could always find time in his schedule to listen to a story, or patch up a bruised knee," Edgar said. "He made sure we sat down for dinner together almost every night, no matter who was visiting or what issues were on the agenda. He – he taught us, not just tutors or scholars. He made sure we had the chance to be—what we wanted to be." He glanced up, at the sea of faces before them, and the realization slowly trickled into the back of his mind like cold water down the spine; he clutched at Sabin's hand with both of his, and Sabin moved even closer, and set his other hand on Edgar's arm.

"So," Edgar said, the words coming out higher and tighter now as the realization dripped down his back and weakened his knees, "it isn't just a king Figaro has lost, it's—"

And then he stopped, suddenly, the sobs he'd held back for days – hours – years, it seemed, by the way they burst out like an exploding pipe and he broke down, suddenly, his limbs crumbling from exhaustion and the grief he hadn't even acknowledged – and Sabin was there, catching him like a warm tower of support. Edgar clutched at his brother's shirt blindly and tried to catch his breath, catch his words, return to the job he had to do and the people he had to face and –

Sabin led him gently over to his chair, set him down in it, and then – Edgar froze as Sabin sighed, squared his shoulders, and headed back up to the podium. He bowed his head, taking a deep breath, and then looked up, solemn-faced, into the seated congregation.

"I don't even have words to tell you what Dad was," Sabin said slowly. "I don't have words to tell you how much I miss him. I don't even know the kind of words that describe how hard it is to fill his shoes as a king, or how hard it is to fill the holes in your life that something like this leaves behind." He paused, and swallowed. "So I'm not going to try."

He glanced over at Edgar, and suddenly it was like they were the only two people in the room, even though Sabin turned right back to the guests. "The Figaro our dad created isn't the kind of thing I could tell you about, anyway. It's the kind of thing that just keeps going, even after something like this – a castle that keeps living, people that keep working. A son that keeps following the dream, even when it means he doesn't take a second to cry about it himself."

Sabin glanced again at Edgar quickly, his entire face reddening as he looked away. "It's the kind of thing that lasts," he said, finally; his head bowed again, and after a few seconds he turned away and came to sit beside in the chair beside Edgar.

It was the first real speech Edgar had ever heard his brother give. As the ceremony picked up again, he reached over for Sabin's hand, and gave it a brief squeeze of appreciation.

\- - -

Edgar knocked on Sabin’s door with the bottles in his right hand, trying not to drop the parcel in his left. “Sabin, open the door.” He kept his voice low, because he wasn’t really sure what he was doing in front of his own brother’s room at this hour of the night after so many bottles of wine and carrying two more – all he knew was that he was worried, worried sick and starving, at himself and his brother and his kingdom and their future, together, all tied up in the working, breathing, living bundle that was Figaro.

Sabin opened the door. To Edgar’s surprise, he’d neither been crying nor fighting; his face was melancholy, but calm and serene. Warning bells went off in Edgar’s head, as if one of the dangerous machines in the basement had slipped its track – except that Sabin was far more dangerous than any machinery, in the ways he could pierce at Edgar’s heart. For him to be suddenly this calm meant something had changed, and Edgar didn’t exactly like the way that thought churned in his belly, mixing with too much wine and not enough meal.

He crossed the room, disregarding the puzzle of Sabin for the moment, and dropped the parcel on the bed. It clanked as it hit the messy pile of sheets. “I’ve brought food,” Edgar announced, making a slow and clumsy turn in search of a nightstand; he found a bookshelf instead, and set the two bottles of wine down upon it. “Neither of us ate much. And don’t try to argue with me.”

“Of course not,” Sabin murmured. He didn’t move from where he stood, one hand still on the doorknob.

“For Titan’s sake, close the door,” Edgar ordered. “And get me the glasses, they’re in the bag.” He reached into his pocket and took out a corkscrew, then plucked one of the bottles off of the bookshelf and settled in on the floor.

Sabin closed the door, and then crossed the room to take the bottle out of Edgar’s hands. “Allow me, brother,” he said, a faint smile playing around his lips. “You look like you’ve already started the—“ His voice trailed off as he looked down at the bottle in his hands, and the smile slowly faded into bewilderment. Sabin glanced down at Edgar, and then back at the label. “Isn’t this…?”

“Mom and Dad’s wedding wine.” Edgar hunched his shoulders, a little. “So? It’s not like we can give it to visiting dignitaries any more. We might as well get some comfort out of it.”

Sabin looked down at Edgar again, his gaze dark and unreadable. "And I thought you were being the responsible one, here, bringing me dinner."

"Don't get too excited." Bereft of wine, Edgar hefted himself across the floor to the bed, where he rummaged through the assortment of things he'd brought, laying them out across the floor in a perfect line, like a country's tribute to a king. The thought made him laugh, a dark chuckle which caused Sabin to glance away from the bottle in alarm.

"Prince Sabin," Edgar said from the floor, with a grandiose gesture at his offerings. "Milord, I offer you the best of our table scraps: bread from tonight's meal and an assortment of random cheeses. Only the best for the best."

"And four more bottles of wine, I see." Sabin crouched down beside him, pulling the two thick mugs towards himself and filling them from the newly-opened bottle. "Suddenly, your scarily cheerful personality makes a lot more sense."

"I am not that drunk," Edgar insisted, reaching for the heavy mug nearest him. "Yet, anyway."

Sabin gave him a sidelong glance, but settled down on the floor and picked up the second mug. He looked at it, thoughtful. "Dad would kill us, you know. First of all, for the wedding wine. But then you pass up that fancy glassware he brought back from Jidoor for these monstrosities?"

Edgar chuckled. "Why do you think I picked them? I almost brought you a barrel to drink from, but I wasn't sure I could carry it up the stairs."

"Sad." Sabin raised his mug. "Well..."

Edgar sighed, and raised his own to clink against his brother's; the thick mugs made an earthy sound as they touched. "Here's to Mom," he said softly, "to Dad, and to Figaro."

They drank in silence.

Edgar swirled the wine inside of his mug, watching it slosh in a lazy circle. He took another drink. "It's still good," he said, softly, because it was: eighteen years after it had been laid down for King Stewart's wedding to the newly orphaned Lady Crystale, the wine was just now peaking, with lush hints of dark berries and a little bit of smokiness.

Sabin took a big noisy gulp and set the mug on the ground. "Those are impossible to drink out of," he said to Edgar, reaching for a bit of cheese.

Edgar gave him a half-drunk grin. "I'm not having any trouble with it."

Sabin reached out, fingering the collar of Edgar's shirt. "That's because you're too drunk to notice your spills," he said, lightly, but his fingers brushed against Edgar's throat as they skimmed the fabric, and the jolt that spread through Edgar's body made him bite his lip and turn back to the mug of wine, confused and hot and not helped at all by the drunken simmer already flushing his skin.

Edgar swallowed, and drank, drowning the feeling with the remainder of the mug.

He turned his eyes back to Sabin, who was already refilling his own mug; Sabin's face still looked clear and calm, and Edgar watched for a long moment, intently, trying to read into the shadows and light on his brother's face. The calm already worried him; he also did not like this, this inscrutable strange look he'd been unable to name. Edgar studied, marking the way Sabin closed his eyes as he drank deeply from the mug, the way he dabbed a bandaged knuckle against the corner of his lip to blot a drop of wine. He watched his brother breathe, chest rising and falling; noted Sabin's gaze into the mug of wine, contemplative and troubled. None of it brought him any closer to what was actually bothering his twin.

A clear thought occurred to Edgar, through the wine-haze and scrutiny, and he sat up a little bit and said, "Sabin. Thank you."

Sabin glanced up. "For what?"

"I know you hate speeches," Edgar said, and now his entire face was hot with the embarrassment of the memory; he turned his gaze down to the wine, although he knew the lame attempt to hide his flush wasn't going to work. "I'm sorry I couldn't get through it." His voice had turned quiet.

Sabin reached out for Edgar's glass, and as Edgar passed it to him, their fingers touched, lightly; Edgar pulled his hand back a little too slowly, not really sure why, thinking of clutched hands and bandages, and his brother's support. Sabin looked flushed; the wine was strong, Edgar thought. He was already light-headed himself. "Anyway," he said, around some strange knot in his throat. "Thanks."

Sabin coughed. "Not a big deal," he said, and he sounded as embarrassed as Edgar.

"I certainly haven't been much help with any of the rest of it, and when you… so I thought… it was a shitty speech anyway."

"No." Edgar looked up at Sabin. "That's not true at all. Your speech was better than mine." He shook his head. "You give yourself so little credit. It was perfect, exactly what needed to be said. And I … I appreciated it, and I know Dad would have too."

"Would you stop it?" Sabin's voice rose sharply, and Edgar watched his face turn cloudy and dark. "Stop trying to make it sound like I'm good at any of this. I'm miserable at it all, and you know it as well as I do."

"What?" Edgar's heart was racing. "I was being perfectly serious, Sabin. What in the world makes you think you're bad at – at anything?"

"Stop it, Edgar." Sabin looked away. His expression was exasperated, and Edgar's heart began to beat even faster with worry. "I don't really fit in this 'giant machine' of yours, and maybe I don't want to. So stop trying to convince me that I belong here."

Edgar gestured angrily with his mug, a few drops of wine sloshing their way over the edge. "You reject everything that tries to bring you in, and then wonder why you don't fit. Stop turning Figaro away, Sabin. She's a part of you."

"Stop talking about it like it's something alive!" Sabin set his mug down with a solid thud. "Figaro's a castle and a desert, Edgar. And a set of rules and expectations I'll never like even if I do learn to live with them!"

"So what?" Edgar asked. He set his mug down next to Sabin's and turned to face his brother head-on, kneeling. "Rules can be changed, you know. I don't think you understand yet, Sabin – we're in charge here." His voice became urgent, quiet. "We're in charge." He paused for emphasis. "If you're unhappy with Figaro, we can change it. We can make it better. Don't reject something you have the power to fix."

Sabin's face was anguished, his expression torn. "Stop it, Edgar, please," he breathed.

"Stop what?" Edgar was relentless; he moved even closer, trying to get physical proximity to help him make his point: a language Sabin knew, even as his face flared with the heat of the wine, his movements unsteady. He let his hands come up to grasp Sabin's, instinctively, pulling him closer. "Stop talking common sense? Stop trying to get you to step up and take a job you were born to do?"

Sabin's eyes closed. "If you'd stop running and hiding," Edgar continued, letting his voice drop low, "you'd be able to see what I see, what we all see – what everyone in this castle feels is true."

Sabin's eyes flew open – and suddenly he was in Edgar's face, angry and hissing, snatching his hands back. "Stop trying to hold me here," he snapped, suddenly so close, looming over Edgar with fists clenched. "I don't have to stay, you know. I can go any time. Why can't you just -- let me go?"

Edgar met his eyes, hard, confident, too confident to back down. "You don't really want to go, do you," he whispered. "You won't go by yourself. You want someone to choose for you."

"Why can't you—" Sabin's voice caught in his throat. His eyes were so angry, but his voice was pleading. "Just tell me to go," he said, the words a command and a plea.

Edgar stared, holding Sabin's gaze, the tension between them a guarantee of something—and then something changed, and Sabin's laugh-sob caught in his throat with the rest of his words – and then Sabin had leaned forward the rest of the way, kissing Edgar, roughly, almost angrily. Edgar froze, shocked, stunned, even as something inside of him clicked, pieces falling together around him in ghastly ruins—he couldn't move, his limbs seized with sick tension.

Sabin broke it off, too, and laughed again, that half-sob, and Edgar's heart broke even as it plummeted to the floor in a grotesque sort of terror. Sabin's hands were at Edgar's throat again, bandaged fingers brushing the skin as he played with the top button of Edgar's shirt. Edgar shivered, and this time they both noticed, and Sabin looked up, his eyes deep and dark.

"Go ahead," he whispered, and it was challenge and plea and grief and revulsion and resignation all together: Edgar could tick them off, one-by-one, from the long list of emotions boiling in his own chest, a contained reaction building up pressure and heat inside a vulnerable vessel. Sabin looked at him with all of that in his face, and said, "Tell me to go."

And Edgar realized he couldn't. Not now, not like this, not with the entire kingdom still waiting like a coiled spring behind them: not now, especially, with the shame and possibility still weighted in the air between them. Edgar could already feel his brain clicking things into place, slowly building up the image of something he didn't want to consider from the wreckage of emotions swirling like oil through his heart and out his lungs with every breath, every heavy panting breath, and he watched Sabin take the same deep breath in, breathing the same air with the same lungs in the same chest: waiting, waiting for rejection, for the final word—

And suddenly, all that was important to Edgar was that his brother _not_ get there; he couldn't reject Sabin, because then he'd lose his twin forever, and coherence was dragged down under the surface of the boiling thick oil of emotion as Edgar leaned forward, catching Sabin's lips with his own.

The gasp of air surprised them both, and Edgar pressed his advantage, leaning in, over his brother. It was angry, hot and fluid, and it made sense to Edgar, because if it was angry and fighting then it wasn't really a kiss, it wasn't really happening like this, it was just a continuation of the fight they'd had earlier with—

Sabin gasped again, one sound in the utter silence of the room. His hands came up to clutch Edgar's face, rough thumbs on Edgar's cheeks, bandages tangling in his hair as Sabin pulled him closer. Their mouths were fighting, now, open and rough, and oh, did they really want this, or did neither of them really want it, but Sabin wasn't letting go, and as he sucked on Edgar's bottom lip Edgar found himself short of breath with all of it; he could taste their father's wedding wine on Sabin's lips, and that was somehow too much, all of it was too much—"Stop," he was breathing, even as his hands were reaching out to Sabin's face in direct answer: "Stop," he panted, "wait, please, just, _stop._ "

Sabin went still. His hands pulled, slowly, out of Edgar's hair, until they rested with the backs on Edgar's shoulders, fingertips still tangled. Edgar's thumb was running over Sabin's cheek, a gesture he didn't even remember starting, and he felt hot, and he felt sick, his breath catching in his throat again and again, and he couldn't stop thinking about the texture of Sabin's lips or that light brush of skin at his collar, and—

Edgar ducked out of everything, fighting limbs and his own hair and gravity and finally he was standing at the door, breathing as if he'd just fought an antlion in the desert, panting with exhaustion. "I need," he gasped, words choking and short, "to catch - my breath." His hand, on the doorknob: cool metal, smooth surface. "Please. Don't move." A moment, a breath, his lungs tight and failing. "Please."

Sabin looked up at him, slowly, his face unreadable, and Edgar said, through thick gasping breaths, even as he turned the knob: "I – I will – come back."

\- - -

The empty hallways of Figaro were not peaceful. The silence was not helpful. Edgar walked in circles, pacing the same lines he'd walked his entire seventeen years in the castle, and there was no comfort to be found. His stomach churned, and the thoughts he'd put off had come back for reckoning, in a density which made his knees quivery and weak.

Had Sabin really--? Had he--?

His feet had brought him to the basement labs, but he walked through unseeing, the leaks and rust that would have bothered him by daylight rendered invisible by his distraction – he was totally and utterly absorbed in himself, and hating it: Edgar wanted to be outside his body, outside of everything, far away. He wanted to run, to throw up, to get rid of these traitorous responses, because how had that been a good idea? How had he made things better? And yet he wanted—

Edgar turned on his heel and walked the length of the basement again, trying to focus his vision on the pipes and gears and tools, and it was like his father's death-day all over again -- except that with every step, Sabin's face swam into vision, and he re-imagined in high sensual clarity the feel of Sabin's fingers brushing his throat, except that this time the rough touch continued to -- Edgar realized he was hard. Painfully, desperately hard: swollen with it, and aching. He swore, and part of him wanted to run to the sands and scour himself clean, even as his mind turned back to that kiss; but he ducked behind the engines, frantically checking for roaming servants or trysting maids as he adjusted his trousers, trying to not think about what _that_ meant, trying desperately to not think of his brother with his own hands on himself: not thinking, just letting his hands hide the evidence that it had ever happened and then taking a long, odd moment to look down at his palms as if they were going to catch fire.

He felt dizzy, shallow breaths catching in his lungs; Edgar sat down - and then stood up immediately, walking out of the basement without seeing.

His mind - his engineer's brain, his mechanic's skill, his scientific intuition, they were putting the pieces together for him: ripping out shreds of memories from hours, days, weeks prior and slapping them together with joint tape and carpenter's glue, and the shape of it was something Edgar did not want to admit had been building for a long, long time - the touches, the strange looks, the unreadable dark eyes - but he could not deny it, either, there before him, evidence and conviction in one.

 _No._ But Sabin would leave; Sabin would take that rejection and run -- and that was part of the trick, part of the game Edgar suspected he had been playing, no matter how unwillingly or unwittingly, since the very day their father fell ill: Sabin, rejecting everything, turning it all away, and then claiming he had no place in Figaro. Was this some last desperate feint? Was Sabin hoping Edgar would make the choice for him? Abandoned, rejected, and then he was free to leave?

Because Edgar would not - could not - but he couldn't do that either - but he had, and he would, and oh, he _could,_ couldn't he? His mind still felt dizzy, as if it were turning in circles.

His feet had brought him back to Sabin's room.

This time, he was strong enough to open the door; he turned the handle and entered before he could second-guess himself, before he could second-guess anything that had happened. Sabin was still on the floor, but he'd emptied a bottle of wine in Edgar's absence; his face was red, his eyes wary.

"I'm still here," Sabin said, and it was a promise and a heartbreak all at once: he'd waited.

"Sabin," Edgar said, and he was surprised at how calm he was even as the conflicting thoughts howled and tore at him on the inside. He wanted to turn and leave, he wanted to turn back time so this had never happened, but then he looked closer at Sabin's face and he wanted that closeness, again; to make that angry face melt, again, and how would he ever look his brother in the face without thinking of this shame and want and shame, piled on in layers that stuck together like resin and gummed up his rational thoughts.

"You're not supposed to," Sabin said, the words vanishing into nothing; well, Edgar thought, at least he wasn't the only one confused. "You're supposed to… damn it, Edgar." He buried his face in his hands.

Edgar wasn't sure which of them should be more embarrassed or more ashamed, but in the end it all came down to the same thing, at least where he was concerned. He wouldn't let Sabin use something like this as an excuse to run, even if it meant—

"Sabin," he said, even as the words caught in his throat and the concept itself tried to claw its way out of his belly. "It's alright."

Sabin shook his head and hunched over, looking simultaneously miserable and furious. "I just want - I want to get out of here, or I want to be here for good. I want Figaro to make up its mind." He laughed, a little, throwing an oddly intimate look at his brother, intimate and fiery; Edgar's erection twitched at the sight of it, and he wanted to weep. "I want all of it, or none of it, and nothing in-between, Edgar."

"If I thought it would do any good," Edgar said gently, "I would tell you to go."

"But what about you?" Sabin turned away, and Edgar wondered how much of that kiss had been a kiss and how much had been - something else. "What would you do? There's no way I'm leaving you here to sulk and hate me," he said, and Edgar saved the thought for later, a glimmer of the reason he didn't want to look for among the shards of normal life, the broken pieces of a thing they'd ruined.

"Would you come?" Sabin asked.

Edgar blinked, and sighed. Maybe they could fumble their way back across the line, back into normality, back onto the path they'd been walking before. "Freedom," he mused, humoring Sabin. "Think of the things we could do." It was true, too: they'd be a great team together, their strengths working in tandem - a little too closely, Edgar thought, remembering Sabin's lips and - he shook his head.

"But." Sabin sighed. "Figaro."

"Yes," Edgar agreed, his heart flip-flopping, presenting him a revision of the scene, again, and he wondered how it could ever be the same. "Figaro."

\- - -

"But we can't—"

"You will," Edgar said, and his voice left no room for argument, because he didn't have any room for argument inside this twisted, quivering, shivering mess that had taken over his brain. "We can hold the coronation off for a week to let the country mourn."

The head servant bowed his head, obedient, but then he said, "The chancellors will be most displeased, my lord. They wish to have this issue settled as soon as possible."

"I know." Edgar bit his lip as a little more impatience slipped out of his mouth than he'd intended. "But the week of mourning is an old custom, and my father would have liked it. Everything has been moving so fast." In the preoccupation of his thoughts, the perfect excuse occurred to him, and it slipped out of his mouth before he could catch it: "Sabin and I need a little bit of time."

It was the truth, the absolute and honest truth, although it had nothing to do with their father or their kingship and everything to do with just them, the two of them, bound and unbound. Just thinking of it had Edgar flushing again.

The head servant must have mistaken the blush for shy embarrassment, because he was nodding in sympathy. "My lord," he said, his voice smoothly soft and deferential. "Of course. I will let them know."

"Thank you." Edgar meant it; the last thing he could think about right now was any kind of coronation or responsibility, and his last excuse had truly been genius: if it went around the castle that the princes needed some time for their own grief, hopefully no one would bother them –

And they could be alone.

The thought twisted in Edgar's belly, something half between pleasure and nausea, and it twisted further as Sabin came around the corner. Just the sight of his brother had Edgar's blood boiling; his muscles tensed, and the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

"Edgar." Sabin's voice was low, and Edgar felt it like cold wind on his arms; he tried not to shiver, and failed. Sabin tried not to let on that he'd notice, and failed. This was new, Edgar thought, this strange exchange of potential energy between them. Would every word, now, be laced with double and triple meanings?

Edgar smiled. It was both genuine and not; Sabin looked wary, as if he knew. "Did you speak with the committee?" Edgar asked, wanting to keep the conversation under his control, steered carefully away from any of the sinkholes.

Sabin's lips twisted, and Edgar had a momentary flash of them parted, Sabin's face flushed-- he looked away. Sabin gave a half-laugh, more an exhalation of breath than anything, and said, "I found them. They don't have anything to report yet."

Edgar couldn't even remember what they were talking about. "Right," he said, vaguely, hating himself because this was _not_ what Figaro needed; how could it be what he needed, so badly, the catch to keep Sabin in place? Would he really do this?

Sabin simply looked at him, and Edgar found himself flushing under his brother's gaze. Sabin shook his head, and turned away. "I should go," he said simply.

\- - -

The knock on the door wasn't unexpected. It made Edgar's gut twist anyway, even though he'd been waiting and wondering and thinking through the ways this conversation could play out, his brain constantly evaluating and re-evaluating and in some cases producing vibrant imagery that wasn't at all needed or helpful.

He opened the door.

Sabin barreled into the room, the door closing itself behind him as if propelled by an unseen force, and Edgar wondered how he'd never noticed before the sheer force of Sabin: the energy his twin carried around him, an aura of righteous anger and taut awareness -- or maybe he had, and the realization now was something completely different.

"I'm leaving," Sabin said shortly, pacing the length of Edgar's small room and then spinning, fast but still balanced, to face him.

"No." Edgar shook his head. It was the one thought he could still hold on to after everything else: "No," he repeated. "Sabin, you can't."

"Look at this!" Sabin threw his arms wide, and Edgar winced -- again, it was Sabin, striking right to the heart of everything Edgar wanted to tinker with and adjust and tweak and _avoid._. "We can't even -- you couldn't even finish a sentence today, Edgar." He laughed, desperately. "You, the king of gab. You can't even look me in the eye anymore."

"Yes, I can." Edgar looked up at that, angry, pushed to the edge again by the hint of challenge in Sabin's voice: he looked up, and it was that heat and electricity between them, again, tension swelling to fill the air. He took a step forward, propelled by disgust at his own body's response: he would find a way to engineer around this, to fix these wayward connections. He could control it, and he would; like any material, it could be shaped. Sabin's gaze was hot, but it wasn't angry; Edgar took another step, closer, and he could hear the hiss of Sabin's breath as he drew it in.

Sabin set his mouth, determined. "You don't want me around here anymore, Edgar," he said, and his voice was low again, and thick with it. "Do you?"

And that was the challenge. Edgar swallowed, because he had to make a decision, and even as he took the last step forward he could feel his muscles tense with uncertainty, but at this point it felt like the only way to make something, anything, some last semblance of a functional thing, out of the mess of parts and pieces they'd become. "Do you think I'm rejecting you?" he asked Sabin, softly, more softly than he'd meant to, because it came out all wrong, seductive-like, as if he were actually trying to _seduce_ his own brother. Sabin blinked, and Edgar hadn't meant it like that, because he wasn't playing Sabin; this wasn't a _game_ \-- and before Sabin could finish whatever he'd meant to say with that sharp intake of breath Edgar leaned in and took Sabin's lips with his own, because he didn't know what else to do.

He'd expected to feel more -- resolute, or determined, or at least less repulsed by the whole thing, if he were the initiator, but Edgar found it was still a dizzying combination of thrill and horror. He frowned, and Sabin's mouth shifted, hard and feverish, almost angry. Anger was a much more fitting emotion, and Edgar kissed back with it: the anger, the frustration, still confused but at least no longer indecisive. Wherever this path led them, at least they'd go together, Edgar thought, and he grabbed Sabin by the shoulders and kissed his lips open with force.

Sabin made a noise, deep in the back of his throat, and Edgar felt a sharp stab of desire-pain-shame run through him; his groin tightened, and he stepped back as Sabin stepped closer, hot body against hot body, and then Sabin's rough fingers were at the collar of his shirt again, and this time -- Edgar pulled away slightly, took a deep shuddering gasp of air, and then turned his head again to claim Sabin's lips. Why the skin under his collar was so sensitive, he had no idea, but Sabin's fingertips burned. He couldn't have stepped away had he tried, had he wanted to – and he did want to – but he couldn't move.

Sabin's fingers tore through the top button, continuing down to the next one. Sabin pulled back slightly to glance down, but his face twisted -- and Edgar thought, maybe, maybe they weren't going to have to do this after all; maybe Sabin was just as confused and conflicted and maybe they could just talk this thing out and -- but then Sabin yanked at the button, and Edgar heard it pop and clatter to the floor. Sabin's hands sank to the next button as he turned back, kissing Edgar roughly, and Edgar thought: we are already too far to turn back, and neither of us wants to admit it.

So he thought about hands, just hands, undoing his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders; palms, rough calluses running up and down the skin of his chest. But then bandages brushed the sensitive skin of his nipples, and Edgar gasped, because he couldn't forget about the bandages. Sabin paused, his hands all over Edgar's skin and his mouth near Edgar's neck.

"You don't really want this," Sabin said, his voice query and growl and offense all at once, "do you?"

And even as Edgar's brain sang _no, no, stop, please just stop,_ he stepped into it, fighting the revulsion as he pressed his body up against Sabin's, and oh, he could feel hardness and heat, and before he could twist away in shock, Edgar made his hands grab Sabin's shirt. Made them lift, slowly, higher, their bodies so close the motion was awkward and disjointed. Made them pull the shirt off over Sabin's head, made himself step in: both of them blazing with heat, and he couldn't help but hiss as they pressed together, skin on skin, even though he wanted to step back: so much heat; Sabin was radiating with it, a furnace pulling this tension-energy out of the air and converting it into flame.

Sabin still hadn't moved, so Edgar clenched his eyes shut and kissed Sabin again, hard, hard and _angry_ , and ready to just lose himself completely in the anger and the challenge.

"Do you?" Sabin asked around Edgar's mouth, and his voice was unreadable. "Do you really?"

"Stop asking," Edgar gasped, because every pause loosened the bolt a tiny bit more, and eventually his resolve would blow, all of his confusion breaking out of the container he'd packed it away in. He couldn't even think about the possibility: it would ruin everything. And so he, Edgar, led Sabin over to the bed: pushed him down on it, rough but not too hard, actually _relishing_ the moment his twin looked up at him with complete surprise. He didn't even have to pause to take a breath before climbing onto the bed himself, lowering his body to Sabin's, dropping his head for a possessive kiss to shut away the words and the questions.

It was almost enough, to forget it all, there: warm hard body pressing against his, kissing back with rough abandon, hips grinding into the heat beneath him. It was almost enough, just another repeat of dalliances he'd had plenty of -- almost. Except that they echoed each other, uncannily and unintentionally: gestures and sounds the same, hands and bodies the same size. Sabin thrust against him in a way that made him moan, unwittingly, and his hips bucked in a response he couldn't control: and Sabin moaned, and it was the same sound, from the same lips, from the same lungs. Edgar froze, his eyes opening, and Sabin looked up at him with eyes wide and for the first time they exchanged a look of absolute terror; the sick feeling swelled as Edgar tried to move, one way or the other, anything forwards or backwards better than this purgatory pause of realization--

\--but Sabin gave in first, his hands drifting down to hook roughly into the waistband of Edgar's pants, and _then_ the hiss from his lips was entirely involuntary. His body jerked, and Sabin's hand was just so – so close – and he moved, moved his hips, and he wasn't sure who had made the final move or if it had just happened, except that now he was thrusting against Sabin's hand and he was _hard as hell_ and his mind kept screaming _no, no, stop,_ even as his body pressed for more, faster, harder, Sabin's palm against his cock, his fingers wrapping round it, his grip tight and rough through the fabric.

Edgar was panting. He felt—hoarse, maybe; his throat hurt, his eyes burning, somehow, and the feeling was irrelevant to the pressure of Sabin's grip around him. The room was silent except for some idiotic-sounding gasps Edgar realized were from him, and as he froze in that realization, Sabin moved his hands away – the loss of that pressure – except _now_ those familiar fingers were at the buckle of his belt, fumbling in haste, and Edgar couldn't move, on hands and knees above his brother as the belt gave way, and his buttons, and then one large hand sliding down his torso, slowly, too slowly, and with every knuckle's-width ramifications and realizations popped up like bubbles through the hazy smog of the pleasure-not-pleasure. Edgar closed his eyes, and his breath was ragged in the silence of the room, the only sound, the only thing at all, and Sabin's hand slid down into his trousers, large rough palm and bandages Edgar had placed there himself, and his fingers closed around Edgar's cock and Edgar swore, out loud.

It was almost painfully, exquisitely, terribly good: and terrible was the best word for it, because Sabin's grip was tight, and his motions slow, and Edgar's body was filling with that hazy smog of pleasure despite – everything. His mind's frantic chorus of rejection, condemnation, disgust – all of it drowned out by the feel of that firm hand, the sensations as it moved, the edges of the bandages providing texture and friction he never would've thought of as good but now couldn't ignore, heady and blazing from his groin to his spine to his quivering fingertips as he breathed in. Sabin did something with his hand, shifted his fingers, delicately moving the bandages somehow, and _hell,_ it felt good, tight around him just like—

– oh, oh, _fuck,_ Edgar realized, even as a wave of pleasure threatened to close his eyes and short-circuit the last remaining functioning portion of brain, half the reason this was so good was because it was so familiar: hands like his own, shape and size and grip and pressure all just like his own, in the privacy of his own room, no sound except heavy breathing and the faint rustling noise of palm pumping flesh—

And it went on, the familiar, intense, exquisite feeling of that pleasure-pressure building, which surprised him, because - despite the terror and revulsion and the spine-creeping wrongness of the breath in his ear, arousal was still building, every stroke of the tight hand down his length sending waves of pleasure into his belly like electric wires. It went on, and Edgar couldn't keep his eyes closed, although he opened them only for a moment and then closed them against the sudden vertigo of his own reflection, beneath him, around him - he didn't want this, no, oh, no, he had to stop, pull away, disconnect - and yet he continued to move, with the motions, against his own will and against all possible common sense as his body just _took him there_ without permission.

Sabin's hand tightened around the base of his cock, and Edgar's senses flared: the sudden rush of heat made him nauseous, and the silence in the room was worse when it was filled with his own low-throated gasp-moans, the kind he couldn't keep stuck in his throat, and oh, _hell,_ no, no, he wasn't going to, although his body was barreling there despite his best efforts to choke it down. Edgar gave up. Gave in. Thrust himself twice, hard, into his own brother's hand, and came, spilling into Sabin's hand and his pants and hell only knew where, as the heady rush of orgasm overtook his vision for a second; he slumped, down on his elbows, resting his head on something warm and choking on his own breath and - surprisingly - tears.

Neither of them moved. Edgar lay across Sabin, trying to breathe, still caught in the haze of such a powerful finish, his mind still screaming _no_ even as his body sagged into warm, pleased oblivion. Sabin's breath was shallow and fast, and Edgar realized his brother was hard beneath him: he could feel it, that aching hardness, a twitch into his belly that couldn't have been all intentional.

Edgar did not know what to do, because the thought of touching his brother that way still filled him with sick-awful dread: even though he had just taken advantage himself. If that thought made him ill, how much worse would it be to - ?

Edgar did not move. He lay there, across his brother, head in his shoulder and his brother's erection pressing into his stomach, and he didn't move, because he didn't know how to - didn't know what to say - didn't know how to do any of this. He felt empty, frozen, awkward, filthy; he could barely breathe. So he didn't move, and didn't move, as his breathing recovered and his body emptied itself of orgasmic afterglow and refilled with Edgar, bringing with it an awful heavy dread and a strange sense of finality, as if a dam had broken somewhere in his brain. And still he didn't move.

Sabin did. He gently rolled Edgar off of him, and Edgar let his eyelids flicker a little bit, as if he'd been asleep or near to it. Sabin was looking at him, a long and intense look, something too deep for Edgar to see through his half-open eyes - but he didn't dare open them the whole way. He let his eyes drift shut, as if he were tired, and lay there, trying not to move, waiting for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Sabin whispered: "Don't hate me."

Edgar felt the bed shift as Sabin stood up from it, and heard sounds that must have been the rustling of clothes, but he couldn't move _now,_ because Sabin would know he wasn't truly sleeping. The door opened, and there was a pause, and then it closed.

Edgar opened his eyes and stared into the room. It was empty.

"I don't," he whispered, and wasn't surprised to find he meant it: even with his muscles frozen in place by disgust and his heart dripping with guilt and shame, even as pleasure ebbed from his limbs into a bed still warm with Sabin's body-heat, even with all the things he wouldn't think about... he still needed his brother.

\- - -

"My lords," the young man said, adjusting the spectacles on his face - a nervous tic Edgar had noted before he'd even crossed the room – and bowing low, "I do not have anything conclusive to tell you."

"Big surprise," Sabin muttered, voice low, hands gripping the arms of his chair. Edgar's eyes were drawn to his hands, the bandages removed, wounds healing over well; those hands, that tight grip around his – discomfort swirled in his stomach, coupled with the faint buzz of arousal.

"Please give your report," Edgar said to the scientist. He did not look at Sabin.

The man opened the folder he was holding and gave it the kind of glance that was so obvious a stall anyone could tell; Sabin snorted, and Edgar leaned forward a little in his chair and said, softly: "We still want to hear it, no matter what the news."

The man blinked, and then smiled, nervously, his glance fleeting between the paper and the princes before him. "It is not conclusive, my lords. I wish I had more information for you, because I know this is important." He shuffled through the pages, and then presented Edgar with a carefully-written report, on expensive parchment. "We found high levels of certain compounds in the blood sample which were unusual. As you can see here, one of our chemists has postulated they could have come from a variety of substances."

Sabin craned his head over to look, and Edgar closed his eyes momentarily at the closeness – the heat, radiating off of him, almost touchable – he opened his eyes and focused on the paper, tilting it towards Sabin slightly.

Sabin frowned. "So it was poison, then. This section here--?" The question was obvious in his voice.

"The top section." The young scientist nodded. "However, you'll see the bottom section is a selection of common-known potions and antidotes, which King Stewart could have consumed at any time." The man's voice was regretful. "We do not have a good record of what sorts of treatments the king underwent during the early days of the illness, when he thought it just a fever. Once he was bedridden, we know what the nurses gave him, but before then…"

"He could have taken something on his own," Edgar said softly, understanding.

"Or he could have been given something," Sabin insisted. He slammed a fist into the arm of his chair. "You know Dad. He would have gone right to the infirmary – he would've spent an hour there, asking about that old nurse's kids while she fed him tonics with a spoon. He wouldn't have snuck something on his own."

Edgar set his hand on Sabin's arm, lightly. He could feel the heat of Sabin's skin on his palm, feel the twitch of frustrated muscles beneath. Sabin flinched, and Edgar wanted to snatch his hand back, but instead he squeezed, just a bit.

"Is there anything else?" Edgar asked the young man, even while his fingers stayed perfectly still, not tracing patterns on Sabin's bare arms and running over his—Edgar shivered at the thought, and _now_ he took his hand back, resting it safely in his lap to avoid the temptation.

The scientist tucked the piece of parchment back into the folder and handed it to Edgar. "Not much, my lord. I've heard that they may have found someone willing to spy on the Empire for us, but that isn't really my department," he said, rather mournfully.

"Thank you for your thorough work." Edgar nodded at him, his hands clasped safely in his lap. The man took the dismissal for what it was, and left.

Sabin leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, sighing loudly in frustration. "Why is no one else putting the pieces together?" He sat up, pulling his hands from his face in a way that made Edgar shiver a little. His eyes looked tired and anguished, and almost defeated. "No one cares, do they? Doesn't anyone care about justice in this place? Or dignity?"

"We cannot just confront the Empire," Edgar returned. "It would be a declaration of war, Sabin, a war we can't afford. Are you really willing to risk the entire realm on a gut feeling? Those are innocent people you'd be starving, innocent lives we'd be spending. Figaro would pay the price. How can you ask that?"

Sabin stood up abruptly. "I can't _take this,_ " he said urgently, pacing across the room. "Why can't I just do what I want? Is Figaro going to be tied to every move I make, forever and ever?" He kicked the door, and it slammed shut, the sound resonating in the small room.

Edgar said, shocked and flabbergasted into brutal honesty, "You cannot take on the Empire yourself, Sabin."

Sabin turned on him, something red glaring in his eyes, and Edgar was almost taken aback – but then Sabin kicked his chair, and muttered, "No, I can't." Edgar sat back in his chair with a sigh of – what? Relief? Sabin was staring at the chair, contemplating something other than the tapestry on his cushion; Edgar couldn't help but watch, muscles twitching in his brother's cheek – would he have noticed that before all of this? Or was this new sense of awareness and dismay part of the terrible slippery slope they'd found themselves on? Why did he still want to touch Sabin so?

They had still not said anything of what had passed. It had almost never happened - except the shadows on Sabin's face were a little darker. Edgar assumed his were, too. Eventually they'd have to face it.

But then Sabin turned back towards him, and the light in his eyes had focused, turned from anger into something else, something intense, and flashbacks of the night before flickered through Edgar's mind, not entirely unpleasant. "But -- _we_ could," Sabin said, his voice low but not angry: expectant, eager. Powerful. Seductive.

"We could, together," Sabin said, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile Edgar hadn't seen in days, a sly confident smirk that lit Sabin's face up. "You know it. We could – infiltrate them. Your – brains. My – power." The smirk tipped into a full-blown grin, and oh, gods, Edgar couldn't look away from this. "We could do it."

He opened his mouth to say – anything, something, words. Sabin's face was stopping him, the energy around him solidifying into an aura, almost a glow, something tingling in the air; he looked lighter and more carefree than he had in days. And the thought was still breaking Edgar's heart as he wondered how much more he had to give his twin and his country, and if they'd ever both accept his body and soul as currency, because it was all he had to offer.

"You said you were sick of it too, right?" Sabin asked, low and urgent. "Doesn't this bother you too?"

Edgar sighed, because he couldn't lie to Sabin, not any more, not with the memories of skin and sweat in his mind. "Yes, it does bother me. Yes, I'm as sick of it as you are. But Sabin… what would happen to the realm if we both leave?"

"We'd be helping the realm," Sabin insisted, and his eyes were alight with it, fervor and freedom, and Edgar wanted to lean in and taste the smile on Sabin's lips: he'd already had the anger and the frown; was he not entitled to the happiness? He was across the room before he even realized, and Sabin was inches away, that irresistible force drawing him in again—

"Sabin," he managed to whisper, right before their lips touched, "we cannot. What would Dad think?"

Sabin's face wrinkled in pain and sorrow, and Edgar regretted saying it immediately: except that Sabin took a step back, and Edgar felt the sick-hot haze of his brother's presence fade. He too took a step back, and took a deep breath of suddenly clean-seeming air, and his own words hit him like a punch: _Dad._ He hadn't grieved for his father since the funeral; had it really only been days?

Sabin paused at the door. "Edgar," Sabin said, his voice a soft, low growl. "I can't do this."

And then Sabin was gone, and Edgar was alone in the room, his heart pounding with despair.

\- - -

Edgar almost didn't open his door that time, but Sabin wouldn't stop knocking, and Edgar knew from experience that a knocking would turn into a pounding and then there would be yelling and then there would be servants wanting to know why - so he gave in.

Sabin was standing there with the peach brandy in one hand and the same two glasses in the other, and his face was grim as stone as he said, "Let's go up on the roof."

Edgar just nodded, and followed, his brain spinning with questions: why Sabin was here; why he had alcohol, again, when it hadn't turned out so well the last time; did Sabin want it to turn out the same way this time; would they fall off the roof if they - Edgar cut off that train of thought, and closed the trapdoor behind him. They sat down beside each other, again, shoulders touching like the last time: except that this time, the simple brush of skin full of so much more potential energy; Edgar sizzled with it, an engine on overload.

Sabin leaned his head back against the turret, and sighed. After a moment, Edgar did the same. There they sat, shoulder to shoulder under Figaro's dark sky.

"I know Dad wanted us both to rule," Sabin said, eventually, slowly, as if it were a speech he'd been practicing all day - never mind that Sabin never practiced speeches, nor did he give them. "I know he wanted us to divide Figaro, so that we'd always be equal to each other, so that we'd both always have a place in the kingdom without feeling unwanted."

Edgar nodded, although it was almost too dark for Sabin to see. "Yes," he said, aloud. Was it his imagination, or did Sabin lean in closer, warmth pressing against his shoulder? He almost shuddered.

"I don't think we can." Sabin shifted, and now Edgar knew he was moving closer; their legs brushed as Sabin stretched. "Maybe eventually we could, but now? My half of the kingdom would fall apart." Edgar heard Sabin swallow, in the darkness; were they that close? "I won't be worth anything without you there to save my ass."

"You know that isn't true," Edgar began, but Sabin reached over and placed a hand on his arm - Edgar fell silent.

"Stop and think for a moment," Sabin said softly. "Here's the truth, Edgar. Not only is it something I'd be certifiably terrible at, but it's something I have absolutely no interest in doing. Running a country." He sighed, and removed his hand. "Maybe later, maybe when we're older, but now?"

"Figaro needs us now." Edgar almost choked on the words, but it was true: Dad, Dad was gone, they were alone and they were all Figaro had; Sabin was all he had, and neither one of them could do it alone. He kept his voice soft. "We don't have a choice, Sabin."

"I know." Sabin shook his head, frustrated and radiating with it. "Do you think I haven't been thinking about it? This whole time? I can't even -- I hate the Empire for doing this, and it's so selfish of me, because Dad's _gone,_ and I hate them for putting us here. I hate them for all of it. I'll never forgive this."

Edgar choked down a hysterical laugh. His heart was beating in panic, but what could he do? "Sabin," he said, "if you want to go--"

"No!" Sabin gestured with his hands, accidentally bumping into Edgar's arm; he left his hand there, and Edgar felt his skin prickle in awareness. "I'm not leaving you here, to be all noble and selfless and brave and _stupid_. I can't do that, Edgar."

"I don't want you to stay here and be miserable!" Edgar turned towards Sabin, urgent, insistent - and Sabin was there, looking at him: they froze, only fractions of a fingernail apart from each other, lips so close their breath mixed. Edgar's lips were tingling at the closeness, but neither one moved, for the longest frozen moment yet.

It was unreal, that this reaction was already instinct, already that natural between them. Edgar held his breath, and instead of moving in to finish it, to seal that kiss, to stop Sabin's words with his lips, instead – instead he slowly leaned away, his eyes closing so he didn't have to look at Sabin's face and mouth and eyes at all.

Sabin was breathing hard, and Edgar waited a minute for both of them to catch their breath. He opened his eyes.

"What do you want to do?" he asked, into the darkness.

Sabin shrugged, and Edgar felt it more than saw it. "I don't know," Sabin said. "You're the smart one. Do you have any ideas?"

Edgar's heart wrenched at it: even with his lips still tingling from that almost-kiss, the thought of the castle without Sabin was not a pleasant one - and the thought of the castle with Sabin, after this, this tension and this secret between them for years, was even more unpleasant.

"We have a week," Edgar said slowly. "The mourning week. At the end of it, we're going to have to do - something. They're waiting to have the coronation until they know how we're going to… you know, share it or split it up or whatever we choose."

Sabin sighed, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "What do we do?" he asked, and his voice was raw, full of a frustration Edgar's heart echoed.

"I'll think about it," he said, even though he had no idea what to do: what was right, what was wrong, what was unresolved? All of it or none of it, Sabin had said, and Edgar didn't know how to give him that. "You think too."

Sabin stretched his legs out again, his foot bumping Edgar's, and something clinked in the darkness. "Oh," Sabin said, in a tone close to his normal one. "The brandy."

\- - -

The coolant line was leaking. Edgar tucked the wrench back into his belt and reached for his pliers – this sealant tape was getting in his way. Ridiculous equipment. The tape was stiff with age and dried coolant, and it took a pretty forceful tug to pull it away from the joint. Edgar tossed it into his toolbox and then reapplied the wrench to the nut, taking his time: there was no need to rush. Gentle but relentless force worked wonders, and the nut loosened. Edgar carefully set it aside, and went to work gently tugging the length of pipe from its place.

He could sympathize with the poor pipe, wrenched between two things, a conduit for nastiness it certainly hadn't anticipated or asked for back in its factory. No wonder it was leaking: it was the wrong material entirely, and it had cracked under the pressure. Edgar looked at the pipe, and sighed.

He stood up, stretched, and headed back to the pile of scrap. This coolant line needed a certain specific rating of stainless steel; they'd used it to install the engine unit on one of the turrets not too long ago, and he hoped to find something in the scrap bin that could be cut to fit.

Edgar felt awkward himself, like a piece too short or too long for its role. And what was his role to be? The sealant tape, binding Sabin to Figaro? The nut, keeping throne and sons connected? Or the wrench, taking it all apart to rebuild? Right now, he felt most like the pipe: cracked under pressure, bleeding coolant from the heart.

Some of the pieces had fallen into place. How long had Sabin been feeling this – these feelings? Was this the source of his brother's angry denial, his frustrated rage at Figaro: inappropriate lust for his twin? Edgar picked up a shining piece of pipe, then discarded it: too thin. Or had Sabin made it all up, looking for the one thing his brother would be sure to reject? Had he assumed a kiss would be enough to make Edgar turn his back?

There was nothing in the scrap bin. Edgar headed down the hallway, to the abandoned closet he knew workers sometimes stuffed spare parts into. If only there were a way to – to test it. If Sabin truly wanted to go, to leave Figaro Castle, could Edgar really stand in his way? Now? If he told Sabin to leave, would Sabin still go? If Sabin did leave, could he handle Figaro on his own?

Did he want Sabin to go?

Edgar opened the door and peered into the darkness. He grabbed the flash tool from his belt and held it aloft, heading down the narrow dusty corridor, past boxes of gears and piles of half-molding wood. He'd thought it was for the best. Whether Sabin had been looking for rejection or not, at that moment, rejection would have torn them apart: Sabin would have run, and Edgar would have been left alone, trying to explain his brother's absence to a newly widowed kingdom. He hadn't thought that a good ending to the story; he hadn't thought it through, either.

There was no point in denying what he'd done with Sabin; the only question was: what was to be done about it?

And that was a question with no answer.

Edgar found a box of discarded pipe segments and set off the flash tool again, slowly sorting through the options before him. Before he could decide anything on the future, he needed more data. He had to know where the line was – for himself, for Sabin, for them together, this sick and twisting thing between them.

Edgar froze, his hand around a length of pipe. Could he even – could he do that? Figuring out where the line was drawn, between the two of them, no matter -- _how far was he willing to go?_

The question made him shiver, down to his bones, arousal rising swiftly in answer.

Edgar removed the piece of pipe from the box and set off the flash again, lighting his way back to the door. He needed to look at this analytically. The pipe-cutting blade was rusted, but the grinding stone was nearby; the faint _sshhhing_ of metal on stone was soothing and distracting, and Edgar set his mind back onto the issue.

So, personal revulsion and problems aside: boundaries. So far, Sabin was playing along – he hadn't pushed back. Edgar had been scared, before, of rejecting Sabin, of pushing him off of an edge. This was… a _different_ edge. He set the guillotine into lock-position and moved to the other side, smoothing the back edge of the pipe-cutter. If Sabin had truly meant to leave, though, he would have done it already. Something was keeping him here.

The blade twinkled, newly sharp. Edgar carefully measured the length of pipe, and then lowered the cutter; it sliced through the metal like butter. He took it back to the joint and began the long process of maneuvering it into the open spot, trying not to kink or bend anything.

Something was keeping his brother here, and he needed to find out what it was. He would need to push, though. And pushing Sabin was… dangerous. But he'd have to do it, to go farther along this path – yes, he could, he told himself, turning the wrench slowly, oh so slowly.

The thought retreated to the back of his mind, but it hovered darkly, in a way he knew he wouldn't be able to forget.

\- - -

After the third time Sabin caught him staring across the table, he raised an eyebrow at Edgar in annoyed question. Dinner had been over for some time, but no one had left yet; Edgar simply smiled, over the rim of his glass, and then drank, deeply.

A strange resolve had settled over him, and he knew: he had to push, until something shattered, or until they both did. _Tonight._

Something rustled in his belly, a stab of doubt, but Edgar quenched it. He finished the wine and stood up, apologizing in a low tone to the noble seated at his side. "It is late," he said, "and I am sorry, but I haven't been sleeping well."

Lies, truth and lies: but this was it, the final test between them. Edgar slipped out the door, drained his glass of wine. Counted seconds. Took a few steps towards the staircase at the end of the hallway, leaving the glass on the floor. Whistled a little.

The door opened, letting out a belch of hot laughter and high-pitched chatter – and then it slammed, and Sabin said, "What are you doing?"

Edgar smiled. Sabin looked, as always, angry. Something had clicked, between the moment he'd stood up and now, falling into place easily like a carefully handmade part. It was not a lack of fear, or worry, or even sick-making guilt; they all bubbled, faintly, in the bottom of his stomach, unable to be locked away completely. It was more a sense of finality. The system had to be altered for operations to continue, and Edgar was a mechanic: changes did not bother him.

"Let's walk," he said to Sabin, who was still staring. "We should talk."

"We should talk," Sabin repeated, incredulous. He fell into step beside Edgar anyway, as Edgar started to stroll towards the end of the hallway. "You want to talk here?"

"Your room," Edgar suggested, casually. He deliberately kept his eyes forward as he climbed the stairs, but imagining the look on Sabin's face was priceless.

"Oh, sure," Sabin muttered. "That's a good idea."

Edgar was surprised at the rush of arousal, flaring up in his belly at the sound of Sabin's growl – although he shouldn't have been, not anymore, but it was still a shock. He decided to turn the tables back on Sabin – the first push of the night. "Perhaps," he murmured, glancing over at his brother, "that is what I mean."

It had the intended effect. Sabin didn't move, but his eyes grew – wider, darker, something. Edgar was no poet. They made the rest of the walk in silence, awareness simmering in Edgar's veins as he stepped aside with a grandiose gesture, letting Sabin open the door of his own room. He closed the door behind them both.

They stood, awkwardly aware, for just a brief moment. Edgar watched Sabin. His brother's eyes were on the ground, and they were neither eager nor angry: contemplative, perhaps, a mood that rarely struck Sabin's impetuous nature. Well, Edgar thought, all the better. So they were both in odd moods tonight: something else that could take the blame.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Sabin's gaze snapped up to him, surprised. "What do you mean?" he replied, warily.

Edgar sighed, feeling the first twinge of doubt through the protective cloak of his confidence: twins or no, similarities or no, Sabin was his own creature, and Edgar had never been able to fully predict his brother's reactions. "What do you want?" he repeated, slowly and with feeling. "You started this thing, Sabin. What do you want from Figaro? What do you want – from me?"

It came out more plaintive than he'd planned. Sabin's face grew dark and confused; he said, after a long pause: "I don't know."

"By the Goddesses," Edgar said. "If you tell me what you want, Sabin, I will make it happen. We can make it happen, together. Just tell me."

Sabin shrugged, a jerky, angry gesture. "If I had any idea how to fix this, do you think I'd be standing here like an idiot?"

"Help me," Edgar said. Those hadn't been the words he meant to say – so helpless, so unsure! – but Sabin looked up, and Edgar thought maybe it had been the right thing to say after all.

"What I want from Figaro," Sabin began, unevenly, as if he were an engine just starting, sputtering with oil and vitriol and hoping the combustion would catch. "And what I want from you…" His eyes turned to Edgar, all intense and meaningful and _hell_ if it didn't strike a chord in Edgar, that low thrumming in his bones. "Don't you think they're the same thing?"

"Freedom?" Edgar challenged. Sabin blinked, and Edgar took a step forward: his second push. "If freedom is what you want from Figaro," he said, another step, even closer, and he felt the arousal and potential crackle in the air between them, "then _take it._ "

Sabin kissed him. Edgar caught his mouth, hungrily. When they broke apart, Sabin's eyes were dark, and he said in a low voice: "Be careful what you ask for, brother."

"I am not afraid," Edgar managed to say, and then Sabin's lips descended on him: this was no kiss, it was a demand, heat exploding in his veins, and Edgar found himself suddenly pushed up against the wall, Sabin's body pressed against his as Sabin's lips _demanded_ of him. Edgar gave, in return, as Sabin's hands rose to his face, Sabin's tongue in his mouth - Edgar tried to take a step forward, and was gently but firmly slammed back into the wall by the pressure of Sabin's hips.

It was so fully Sabin, the heat and energy and strength of him; Edgar turned his head, sucked on his twin's bottom lip, and Sabin gasped, his voice low. Edgar did it again, wondering in some detached corner of his mind whether all of his favorite tricks would work on Sabin - just how similar were they, really? The thought threatened to shatter the semi-coherent resolve he'd put together, and so he turned back, letting Sabin's mouth claim his again. The feeling was heady.

Sabin paused, his lips breaking away from Edgar's for a moment; he sighed. "Edgar," he whispered, and the words caught in his throat, and--

"All of it or none of it," Edgar whispered back. "Sabin, you must choose."

"I can't!" His mouth was furious now, the rough kiss sending fire through Edgar. "I just can't," Sabin repeated, and kissed him again; Edgar closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of being trapped, against the wall, caught between cool plaster and the heat of his brother.

"You have to," Edgar murmured. The third push: his hands trailed down Sabin's chest and grabbed the bottom of his shirt; his knuckles brushed against the hot skin of Sabin's stomach, and he let his hands rest right at the waistline of Sabin's trousers. "Figaro has waited," Edgar said, taking a step forward; this time, Sabin let him. "As have I," and it was a whisper; he pulled the shirt out, a little, letting his hands slip under, fingers exploring flesh; Sabin shuddered.

"What you want," Edgar said, slowly, lifting his hands, letting the shirt ride up, "you can have." And he - he could, couldn't he? - if this was not the boundary? He stopped with his fingers against Sabin's chest, thumbs oh-so-casually brushing nipples, the shirt gathered around his wrists. "But you have to _do_ it, Sabin."

He had only a moment, and if he hadn't been watching, intently, waiting, he would have missed it: that odd look flickering across Sabin's face, the one he now completely understood and yet still could not put names to - and then Sabin ducked his head and wrestled himself out of the shirt, _fast,_ quicker than Edgar expected - and then hands were at his waist, too, not even bothering to tease as they hauled his own shirt off his head. Their mouths found each other even as they fumbled to pull shirts off of arms, and it was a flurry of fast hard kisses and wrestling fabric and limbs, Sabin's hands on his chest. Edgar gasped, sucking at Sabin's neck; Sabin moaned, and his hands brushed against the front of Edgar's pants. He was already growing hard, maybe at this point in anticipation, because they were nowhere near any boundaries and there was no turning back.

Sabin broke away, his face flushed and triumphant and dark all at once, and Edgar took in a sharp breath at the sight of it. "Do you think Figaro would still love you if they knew all of this?" Sabin hissed, and it made him angry.

"Stop talking about it like it's alive," Edgar retorted, sarcasm dripping from his words, kissing Sabin hard and sucking his lip as he drew away, because he didn't want to think about it.

"If you want action, let's act," Sabin shot back, his face close, his hands wandering to Edgar's belt again; "let's just go. They don't want us here."

But they did, and Edgar did, and he put his mouth to Sabin's neck, hearing the noise his brother made against the skin of his cheek. "Is that what you want?" he asked, and there was no answer, and he pushed again, skimming a hand lightly over the waist of Sabin's trousers. He took an idle step back, and then another; Sabin stepped forward to follow him, eagerly--

Something bumped against Edgar's calves, and he had a moment of dizzy confusion before Sabin pushed him down onto the bed, a quick grin flashing across his face as if he were remembering their last night, as if this were any other tryst and he were getting some strange kind of lover's revenge; and Edgar laughed, out loud, because it was either that or shatter. He pulled Sabin on top of him and kissed him, reveling in the weight of Sabin's body on his.

Fumbling hands found his belt, but Edgar rolled slightly, and sent his own long fingers out in experimentation, because if he could do this, then--

His exploring palm dropped to the front of Sabin's pants, one smooth motion against the hot hard length, and - oh, _hell,_ Sabin made some noise he couldn't even put words to, and Edgar did it again, slower, remembering what it had felt like - Sabin hissed between his teeth - Edgar wrapped his fingers around it, slightly, through the fabric, watching as Sabin's face contorted and his hips bucked and was this what he looked like?, because it was beautiful, and terrible, and it was nowhere near enough: they'd done this, already. One step farther. One more push.

Edgar let his hands return to Sabin's belt buckle. "So what is it?" he whispered, even as he eased the belt from the loop, undid the buckle.

And Sabin -- something snapped, and Sabin rolled off of him, and Edgar panicked - except that Sabin was undoing his belt, even as he snapped, angrily, "What do you want from me, Edgar?"

Warm strong hands, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of his stomach, and Edgar returned the gesture, one hand dropping to stroke Sabin again as the other hand - clumsily - started on the buttons. "What do you want from me?" he returned, even as Sabin hissed, and swore, his hips jerking uncontrollably into Edgar's hand, and _fuck_ , it was a little like a lover's revenge to see Sabin's response after the last time they'd done this: the same lack of control he'd been so ashamed of, and yet now their hands were fumbling, even farther, a strange fight-race, loose buckles clanking.

Sabin finished his task first, and he pushed Edgar over onto his back, pulling his trousers off this time, completely, and for a moment it was a fumble of fabric and socks and the belt went flying, somewhere, to land in a corner, and Edgar lay still for a moment staring at the ceiling, naked as anything and breathing, just trying to breathe, as the panic --

 _No. Keep pushing._

But he didn't even have to; Sabin was there, leaning down to kiss him possessively, his tongue forceful; Edgar breathed it in, his eyes closing, his mouth moving with Sabin's. And oh, Sabin's skin against his; Edgar couldn't control his own reaction, pressing his erection into the body above him.

"Is this what you want?" Sabin asked him, and oh, it was supposed to sound confident, but it was Edgar's own voice and he could hear the question in it, the sarcasm, the uncertainty. That wouldn't do; he needed to know, he needed - to push.

Edgar lifted himself up on an elbow, and reached the other hand into Sabin's open pants, finding his cock, wrapping his fingers around it - Sabin groaned, suddenly, from the back of his throat, and Edgar watched, fascinated, as his hand found a slow rhythm and Sabin's angry look blurred in pleasure, his mouth opening a little - Edgar couldn't resist, and kissed him, thrusting his tongue in Sabin's mouth, _feeling_ rather than hearing the noises from Sabin's throat as his hand stroked, slow. "Choose," he whispered.

"I want-" Sabin gasped against his lips, and at least this time it was Sabin losing his composure. But Sabin's eyes flew open, and Edgar realized that this wouldn't be enough - not this time - it wouldn't -

Sabin looked at him. His eyes were large, and dark, pupils dominating, arousal plain across his face, a red flush on his cheeks, the building pleasure manifesting as frustration as he said, finally, "all of it."

"Do it," Edgar whispered, confidently, resolutely, because that was the final line, and oh, by all three Goddesses, he wanted this as badly as anything now that they were here. Sabin stood up at the side of the bed, trousers falling to the floor, and then stood for a moment. Edgar didn't move, just waited; if Sabin wanted this, he'd have to -

But Sabin crawled back on top of Edgar, and Edgar tilted his head up to kiss him, possessively, almost a command, his erection grinding awkwardly into Sabin's stomach - Sabin was fumbling under a pillow, and Edgar realized - the thought of _that,_ the feel of it, and apparently it wasn't the first time for either of them, because Sabin had a tiny bottle of something in his hand, and Edgar's brain finally crumbled to the rush of anticipation.

Sabin tipped it into his palm, and then wrapped his hand around Edgar's cock, slick, and the sensation drove heady waves of pleasure up his spine, hips jerking reflexively. "Is this it?" he growled, still angry, still bitter, still not knowing -

"No," Edgar said, the words catching in his throat, "you."

And Sabin didn't even hesitate, his still-wet hand going to his own cock, and Edgar couldn't take his eyes off of _that_ , only a few slow movements, even as Sabin moved, bodies arranging themselves almost automatically. Slick hands and sweaty skin, and Edgar edged back a little to give Sabin room; his brain felt hazy, heavy, his limbs dragging slowly across the sheets as he moved, the texture of sheets against his arm surprisingly seductive as he lay back - no, there was no way, this at least he wanted to see - and then reaching up, towards the warm hot body above him, dragging Sabin down, his mouth on face and lips and tongue and lips again. Someone was breathing hard; maybe it was both of them.

Sabin's fingers brushed against him, and Edgar's entire body jerked; he gasped, and Sabin turned his head away, almost shyly, even as he slowly pushed in one slick finger - oh, he didn't do this so often that it wasn't still - _oh_ \- another, and suddenly Sabin was looking down at him with something resembling a grin, as if he were enjoying this - and Edgar thought, distantly, through the jolt of pleasure as Sabin twitched his hand, maybe that was only fair, that Sabin get in a push of his own. But this wouldn't - another small movement, and he couldn't entirely hold back that moan, which should have been embarrassing, except that he was already too far for any shame, laid bare against his brother and wanting more. "Yes," he said; whether Sabin was waiting for permission or instructions, either, this would cover both, as long as he would just-- "Yes."

The fingers withdrew, and Edgar had a brief moment to catch his breath, even with his entire body screaming for more, lit on fire like an oil slick, wet and still burning, and then there was touch, and pressure, and that distinct stretching-feeling, so slow, so tight. Edgar fisted the sheet, not caring any more for its soft texture, just relishing the slow growing sensation, his cock pressed against his brother's belly; the feeling came out in a low gasp, rattling in his throat. Sabin looked at him, a pause, a single moment, and Edgar saw something that almost undid him: _trust,_ out of all things, trust that this wouldn't go wrong, even amidst arousal and frustration and grief, yes, and Edgar closed his eyes against it for just a moment. He swallowed.

Then Sabin moved, that first slow thrust of experimentation, both feeling their boundaries but _hell,_ all Edgar could think was oh, of course, yes, Sabin would be the perfect size for this: a spasm of pleasure making him buck beneath his brother as the pressure hit _there_ and he hissed, and Sabin actually laughed, one quick exhale of breath and _that_ movement set stars exploding in front of his eyes -- _"Wait,"_ Edgar gasped, as the sensation spread and his nerves sizzled and exploded -- and Sabin did, pausing, holding still until Edgar opened his eyes again, still gasping, and looked Sabin in the face: laid bare by all of it, air catching in his throat, his eyes as wide as Sabin's.

He didn't have to say anything. He didn't have anything to say.

They shifted, a little, and Edgar realized again how good a match their bodies were, limbs splayed and touching, hands brushing each other, Sabin's knees and his own thighs and warm, hot, slick skin; their faces were even still close enough, and it was almost sick how well they fit, tight puzzle pieces finally interlocked -- but the thought vanished with Sabin's next careful thrust, deep, so deep Edgar shook with it. The rhythm quickened, and Edgar moved with it, hips and tongue and hands exploring where they could reach, now, stroking and clutching and grasping for a moment as he shuddered.

But then Sabin slowed himself, and Edgar opened eyes he hadn't realized were shut as Sabin's hand closed around his cock, the thrusting pressure slowed to an almost unbearable stillness as Sabin's hand moved, pumping, still slick and almost warmer now, his grasp hard. Edgar moaned again, not even bothering to try and hold it back: Sabin's hips moving slowly, the tightness inside him pulsing and hot. And from there, coherent thought was lost: slow thrusting, pleasure building, tight but not too much, every motion creating a quivering shock of pleasure, already climbing the unstable spiral towards climax. Edgar's eyes flickered, and in the edges of his vision he could see Sabin, watching, desire plain on his face but waiting, watching, waiting for something.

Edgar gripped the sheet again, and hissed at his brother: " _Gods,_ Sabin--"

Sabin began moving again, slowly at first but then faster, his hand eventually slipping from Edgar's cock to brace himself in the sheets as he fell into a long, breathless rhythm; his head fell, beside Edgar's, and at this point it was both of their ragged breath together, indistinguishable. Edgar heard it, but faintly, at the edges of a consciousness already taken up in growing waves of pleasure, rushing dizzy to his head and his cock and his limbs all at once. Sabin's chest dipped, heat pressing against his, and Edgar shifted - and then groaned as Sabin shifted at the same time, carrying that sensation deep within, to shuddering, brain-shattering effect. Edgar shut his eyes, panted, swore, grasped at Sabin's arms and shook, the shocks of it starting so far inside he thought it would _hurt,_ the feeling spreading from within like fire as he sputtered, clutched, and came, wave cresting over him in a hot rush that left him, for a moment, unmoving, tingling like an aftershock, all the way to his fingertips.

And Sabin, in the aftermath, faster and less methodical now, every motion burning with little pleasure-shocks in Edgar's brain and groin and chest as Sabin jerked, eagerly and _hard_ and Edgar's vision almost blacked _out_ from it but then Sabin made a choked kind of noise into his ear and shuddered, and slumped against Edgar's body.

There was nothing except breathing: breathing, in tandem, almost in unison. And for some reason, the closeness, the similarity, the echo... for one brief and reluctant moment, Edgar found it comforting.

But they had to move. The feeling of Sabin pulling out of him was almost terrible, an unnamable sensation, except for the languor holding him down like a blanket; Edgar concentrated on breathing, and his stomach muscles twitching beneath Sabin's unmoving weight.

Minutes passed, long and slow and still.

Finally, Sabin rolled to the side, and Edgar turned his head: Sabin was giving him an unreadable look, his eyes wide and his lips parted: disbelief, Edgar wondered, or shock? Why was it only in moments like these he lost the ability to read his twin's face? Sabin blinked, and then rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling; his breath was heavy in the silence of the room. Edgar wondered whether Sabin's heart was beating as fast as his, pounding even through the thick haze of pleasure slowly dissipating from his body.

Sabin sighed. He didn't look over to Edgar, but his fumbling hand brushed against Edgar's. Edgar squeezed, and Sabin clutched at him, like a lifeline: a lifeline in the desert.

All of it, Edgar thought. All of it, or none of it.

\- - -

It was a wonder to Edgar that they could still stand shoulder-to-shoulder, here, in front of the Figaro crypt, beneath the harsh glare of the sun, which knew all; but they did. Perhaps it was the presence of the burial party that helped, standing behind them, the formal presence of strangers keeping them firmly in their roles as princes, as kings, as brothers: not as lovers, not as--

Edgar bowed his head, and beside him, Sabin shifted his weight and gave Edgar a quick glance.

Edgar himself had insisted on the mourning week, completely forgetting there were a set of rituals that went along with it - and that, that was almost worse than everything else that had happened, that he would spoil something his father would have loved. That feeling sat hard in his stomach, the slow realization that everything around him was fraying, crumbling, breaking. He'd been trying so hard to hold it all together, pieces and parts, attaching connections where he could and sealing with nails and resin when he couldn't -- but it was all coming apart, and he hadn't helped, too caught up in his brother; even now the thought of them, together, made him flush. The arousal, hotter than the Figaro sun above them, hotter than _heat_ : and it made Edgar shiver, there, wanting, even as he stood chastized before his own father's grave.

Edgar felt scoured by the heat and the wind and the sand, as if Figaro's crypt had judged him and not found him entirely worthy.

 _Dad._ Could his heart even break any more?

The Elder of the Crypt - truly one of Figaro's oldest nobles, but wearing the ceremonial robe - stepped forward, and handed both Edgar and Sabin a bowl full of water: clean, cool water, because in Figaro's deserts no other offering mattered. Even as Edgar's rational brain told him the water was from Figaro's massive tanks, pumped from an aquifer and treated and stored, he felt the weight of the ceremony fall over him: centuries-worth of offerings, before pumps and pipes, water as rare as life's-blood in the desert, a fitting tribute to the honored dead. Ghosts, and spirits, and a tithe of what kept life going, in remembrance.

It was solemn, and intense. In the silence beneath the pounding sun, Figaro's kings and queens and _history_ waited, a legacy of watching eyes: Edgar's spine pricked with it, between his shoulderblades. He felt strangely unsettled.

Edgar knelt before the headstone. He lifted his fingers to trace over the letters: _Stewart Remy Figaro,_ rough beneath his touch. Sabin knelt beside him, raising his hand as well; for a moment their fingers just barely touched, bridging across the letters of their father's name, and it was like lightning, illuminating every last corner of Edgar's shame.

Then Sabin moved, his hand dropping to trace over their mother's name briefly before he turned to Edgar, and Edgar wondered how Sabin could do this, how he could kneel here before their parents, with memories of what they'd done still so new? Even now he felt like turning away from the grave, hiding his face, as if running and hiding could resolve everything; as if Dad didn't already know, wasn't already seething in his sand-packed tomb at the particular way his boys had found comfort--

Sabin glanced up at him, expectant, and Edgar winced, because even now he was ruining the ceremony, the churning confusion-guilt-want cocktail in his stomach too much of a distraction. He slowly poured the water into the sand at the base of the headstone. Sabin poured his a fraction of a second later, and Edgar watched it dissipate instantly, the only signs of their offering a faint outline left in the sand.

"Your tribute is accepted," the Elder said, and even though Edgar knew, rationally, that no desert would ever refuse water, he still felt a slight chill down his spine.

He stayed, crouched at the headstone, as the Elder gathered up the bowls and the other trappings of the ceremony. He felt - _off,_ perhaps, a gear that had slipped its track but was still trying to turn, frantically, caught in some greater machine he couldn't control. The eyes: it felt like they were everywhere, and the weight of history, the gaze of judgement -- his thighs were burning, and finally Edgar sat, with a sigh, just looking at the names on the stone.

It was hot, and he was sweating, and he felt ill: ill from the heat of all the eyes, from the heat of the prying sun, and as Sabin crouched down beside him all of it vanished; he glanced up at Sabin, and all Edgar wanted to do was kiss him again, here, _here_ of all places, the most sacred heart of Figaro. He glanced over his shoulder; the Elder and the burial party were gone.

Alone, again. _Oh, Dad._

His heart was screaming, crying; he'd been too scared to lose Sabin, before, but now it was as if he couldn't think in his brother's presence, could barely breathe. Sabin sat down beside him, and Edgar had to fight the impulse to reach out and grasp Sabin's hand: not here, with Dad's eyes on them.

"What did they decide?" Sabin asked.

Edgar sighed, and brought his knees up, and rested his chin on them. "They've found no trace of poison," he said, softly.

Sabin leaned closer, and this wasn't fair at all, his twin's aura hotter than the sun above them, burning into Edgar's arm as they touched, just barely. "What are we going to do?"

"Nothing," Edgar said. "There's nothing we _can_ do, Sabin. There's no evidence, no proof, and no way for us to know." His heart ached with it all, and he wanted to go somewhere away from the prying eyes of his brother and his father and the sun, boring down and casting judgement upon him: Figaro, judge and jury and condemnation. Everything he'd done had been for Figaro, all of it and yet none of it, because he'd been too scared for himself. The heat was making him sick to his stomach: heat of midday, heat of judgment, Sabin's heat all too close.

Sabin sighed, and his heart wrenched at it, the feeling no less painful for its familiarity, after the last week. "I can't stay here, Edgar," Sabin said, his voice hard, "without knowing what happened."

"We may not know," Edgar shot back. "Can you live with that?"

"I don't know." Sabin got to his feet. "I just don't know."

And then Sabin left, and Edgar wrapped his arms around his legs and stared at the stone with his father's name on it, both relieved and worried, and more: because the week was almost up, and there was no good solution; he'd rearranged it all, solving the equations in new ways and changing variables and redefining all of the rules, hadn't he, and even as far as he'd pushed, as far as he'd gone, as much as they'd both broken themselves, there was still no way to make it all add up for both of them.

 _These parts do not reassemble to make a working engine._ He couldn't make Sabin love Figaro, any more than he could break the connections chaining them both to the throne.

And he couldn't make Sabin leave. Sabin was afraid to leave, but for Edgar's sake, and it broke his heart; but if nothing yet had made his twin turn his back and go, what would? Had he held on too hard? Edgar's stomach flipped; maybe he had, in his fear and grief, clutched too tightly to something that only wanted to be free. Could he let Sabin go? Could he let Sabin go in a way without rejection, condemnation, anger?

If they could not both be happy, together, would he settle for both being content, apart?

Edgar rolled forward again, to his knees, reaching out to trace his father's name again. "Dad," he whispered, "I'm sorry." The letters beneath his fingertips were uncannily cool in the sunlight, and Edgar shivered despite the heat. He was and wasn't sorry, and he was torn up with it, confusion burning his stomach like an acid, the shame and the want and he would do it again, and that was the worst part of all of it.

 _Your last wish, Dad._ Edgar sighed, and glanced up at the bright sky and gleaming sun.

 _It might not come true._

\- - -

Edgar lifted a hand to trace the ornamental carvings in the door: lilies, a rarity in the desert. Matron had told him, once, that his mother had loved them. His mother had been a high-born Lady of South Figaro, and when she'd come to the castle, the only thing she'd ever confessed to missing were the lilies that used to grow beside some small trickle of a stream in a cave somewhere.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the key. It hadn't been hard to obtain; he'd known where it was, long before, and King Stewart's things - Dad's things - were his things, now. The small intricate key fit into the small intricate lock, and Edgar gently pushed open the door to Lady Crystale's private solar.

She'd always been _Lady Crystale_ in Edgar's mind, as he'd had to know her through the memories of servants and nurses, and she'd always insisted they call her by name rather than _Queen._ He thought of her as Mom, though, sometimes, even though she'd never been, robbed of her chance by childbirth itself. She'd shared a room with the King, of course, but she had kept a solar for herself: a dressing-room, a keepsake-room, a tiny slice of silence and privacy in a bustling, groaning, living castle.

Edgar had been in there, a few times, as a younger teen; he'd flirted with a chambermaid who had told him where the key was, and he'd slipped in and out enough times over the years that he knew what he would find in the top drawer. Seventeen coins, each in a sleek velvet bag. There would never be an eighteenth.

On the night the twins had been born, King Stewart had stayed up all night – while Crystale slept, and died – carving a coin for her, for their twins, Edgar's face on one side and Sabin's on the other. The Queen had died, and the King had tucked the coin away, here in the top drawer of her old nightstand. Someone still dusted it, Edgar noticed.

Every year since then, King Stewart had carved another coin, carrying Edgar and Sabin's faces. Every year, on their birthday, another coin appeared in the drawer, a small gift to the mother they'd never known. Every year, King Stewart made the small tribute to his Queen, a ritual which was now a secret between ghosts - and Edgar.

He took out the small velvet bag on the top of the pile, the one least creased by time and dust, and poured its contents into his palm. A single coin, rough with handmade integrity. His face, at seventeen, in profile: had he aged so much? He stared at his own likeness, thumb glancing softly over the long hair, the strong chin. His father had had some skill.

Edgar turned the coin over. Sabin, in profile: it seemed he was looking off into the distance even on the coin, his mouth set in that angry way he'd carried for so much of his seventeenth year. Dad had carved this, before any of it had happened. Edgar traced Sabin's face softly with his thumb, thinking his brother had never looked so strong.

He'd come here merely to think, to get away; there was a comforting air in these rooms, and a younger Edgar had imagined his mother's presence in the air, watching her son. He was a little too old for the fancy, but there was, in fact, a comforting feel to every breath he took: respite, perhaps, from the turmoil of the castle and of his heart. Edgar felt the low rumble of something stirring, finally, in his _brain_ : the beginnings of a solution, somewhere – or perhaps only a resolution, but it was better than nothing. If only he could hold off the emotional distress: turn down the flow rates, turn off the heater, and just let the mixture agitate for a while. He'd always liked the thought of his brain and body as a machine, but he felt as if he'd been on overload for days – until this morning.

Now the gears were turning, slowly and cautiously, as if afraid to move; they'd had reason to be, but Edgar wasn't afraid of realizations any more.

There was a cushioned bench beneath the small window – servants had snuck in to take naps, until his father had found out and had the room locked. Now, Edgar crossed the room and stretched out, his eyes on the ceiling but seeing nothing, really. All day he'd felt blank, emotionless, empty, an abandoned tank on low pressure waiting for a charge.

They'd found their boundaries together, he and Sabin: or, they'd found they had none.

"Oh, Mom," Edgar whispered to the air; it felt like sacrilege to think of what they'd done, here, in her rooms, in her private sanctuary. He breathed in deeply, and breathed out, and focused on the sweetness of the air, not dusty or stuffy as it had every right to be. Eventually, the brass-tight grip around his heart eased. Idly, he tossed the coin in the air, watching it spin and then land with a thud on his chest. Amused, and distracted, he flipped it again.

Edgar and Sabin. Sabin and Edgar, Rene and Roni, both Figaro, two sides of the same coin. So many paths, so many possibilities, but only two sides to the coin – no matter what, Edgar mused, you'd only get either heads or tails.

He flipped the coin again, and actually chuckled out loud – "Or heads and heads," he murmured aloud, to the empty air and the sunlight and the sixteen other coins in their velvet chambers.

\- - -

The sky was still blue: deep, midnight's-blue, the color of the trim on Edgar's formal cloak, but not yet blue-black and spotted with stars. He stood on the balcony, his hands on the ledge, absorbing heat from Figaro's still-warm stone. It was almost as if he could feel the castle breathing: warmth from the day, stored, fed into his body along the conduit of his palms.

He felt like his heart was breaking – and yet he felt strong. One thing he'd learned in his days as a mechanic-engineer, the time spent tinkering in Figaro's innards and helping her run: sometimes, one had to break something apart to put it back together again.

And sometimes, one had to break something apart completely: dismantling it, applying parts which once ran smoothly together to a variety of different purposes. Edgar thought about the pipe in the basement. He thought about energy, dissipating into the air. He thought about the dissolution of an empire.

"Edgar." Sabin's voice behind him: once, it might have startled him; even a day ago, it might have raised goosebumps along his arms. Now, Edgar wanted to sigh. He'd spent the week clutching his brother close: it was time, in fact, to let him go.

"Matron said you wanted to see me?" Sabin's face, clouded over and unreadable. Edgar thought of the face on the coin, looking off into the distance even in roughly-shaped metal. Had his father known? Not… all of it, but – Edgar hadn't even known, a day ago, a week ago, how this would end.

He'd been in control and not in control this entire time.

"Here is how I see it, brother," Edgar said, turning to face Sabin: his beloved twin, his partner, his other half: the other side of his coin, as legally bound to Figaro as he – and miserable. "We both want things we cannot have."

Sabin glowered, looking like he was going to argue, but – maybe something in Edgar's face stopped him, because he simply came up to stand beside his brother, looking out over the desert.

"I see no way we can both have what we want," Edgar continued, smoothly, as if this were simply a speech to the council, not something slowly and officially pulling his world apart at its joints. "But there is no reason that _one_ of us cannot."

Sabin shook his head. "I'm not letting you do something – selfless and noble," he said, his voice low and serious. "You know that."

"I do," Edgar said. "That's why I've chosen something frivolous and nonsensical."

The air was still for a moment. Then Sabin laughed, a real, surprised, bark of a laugh. "Alright, brother," he said, and though he was still serious, there was a bit of a grin in his voice. "Let's hear it."

Edgar smiled, because even though his heart was clenching up in dread, the nervous-panic of knowing what came next, he somehow knew it would turn out alright. He slipped his hand into his pocket.

"Let's settle this with the toss of a coin."

Sabin gaped, and Edgar grinned at him, the dissolute grin of a crazy man losing his heart. "It's the only way to be fair, isn't it? Let's let the fates decide. Heads or tails."

Sabin closed his mouth. He appeared to be considering it.

"If it's heads, you win," Edgar said, and he clutched the coin in his hand; it had warmed, already, and the rough edges were comforting. "Choose whichever path you want, without any regrets."

"No regrets," Sabin repeated, slowly. "Alright, no regrets. But that means both of us, then, right?"

"Of course," Edgar said, and oh, how could he ever tell his brother how much his heart was already aching with this? "No regrets, and no hard feelings, from either of us." He paused. "About any of it, Sabin."

"All of it," Sabin said, quietly, and laughed, a bitter and broken laugh. "None of it." They both stood for a moment, eyes on the sand and the horizon and the stars. Edgar thought about – about nothing, really, for a brief and glorious moment.

"Alright, then," Sabin said, his face settled, and he was smirking, despite it all, despite everything, and Edgar wondered whether his heart felt as light and free as it should. "Let's do this, then."

"It's only fair," Edgar said, "to let Figaro decide." He pulled his hand out of his pocket, opened it to look down at the coin in his palm. His own face, seventeen years old, in profile. _Heads or tails._ Except that in this case, there was only one side, only one way to do this to make everyone happy: Sabin's freedom, and for Edgar, the peace of heart knowing his brother could have everything he wanted. _Heads... or heads, Sabin._

"Not just Figaro," Sabin said, looking up at the stars.

Edgar smiled. "This is for Dad."

He flipped the coin off his thumb. It spun in the air, glinting as it rotated, soaring up in a perfect arc and then coming to land on the ground at his feet, perfectly, as if the coin knew. It spun a little on the ground, and then fell, with a bright shimmering sound.

Edgar glanced up at Sabin, and Sabin's eyes were closed.

"Heads," Edgar said, softly.

\- - -  


 _  
Edgar: And then, you opted for your freedom.  
Edgar: It's been... 10 years. The little shrimp's grown into a whopping  
lobster!  
Sabin: And you're a king crab!  
Edgar: Sabin... I often wonder if he'd be proud of me...  
Sabin: Don't you ever doubt that!  
Edgar: 10 years...  
Sabin: Where has the time gone...?  
Edgar: Here's to a couple of confused grownups!  
Edgar: Here's to Dad...  
Sabin: ... to Mom... and to Figaro. _   




End file.
